Page 18 of My Unhinged Alphas
He tries to laugh and ends up choking instead.
I crouch slowly in front of him, not rushing it, not needing to. His back is against a metal support beam, one eye nearly swollen shut. He smells like sweat and fear and whatever cheap cologne he thought would make him untouchable.
He wasn’t.
I hook my fingers into the collar of his shirt and haul him upright until his forehead bumps lightly against mine. “Let’s make this simple,” I tell him, keeping my voice low and conversational. “You touched my things. Twice. That tells me you’re either very brave or very stupid.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he rasps.
I smile. That’s my favorite lie.
Behind me, the warehouse stretches out in concrete and shadow. Industrial lights hum overhead. A folding table sits against the far wall with a laptop open, one of the tech Saints pretending not to listen while recording everything. A few others stand in loose clusters, jackets off, sleeves rolled up, watching without interfering.
The Brotherhood doesn’t rush.
We observe. We assess. We correct.
Pain is just another form of correction.
I backhand him once. His head snaps to the side and a thin spray of blood arcs across the floor. He makes a broken sound in his throat.
I tilt his chin back toward me. “Nobody touches my sandwich. Nobody, big guy.”
To be honest, this isn’t just about this idiot stealing my hamburger. Once in a while, I feel the need to remind people who’s in charge. They should never forget who Havoc is.
The guy on the floor laughs through a mouthful of red and tries to swing at my knees.
I step back easily. “Don’t embarrass yourself,” I tell him. “You had your moment.”
This isn’t a sanctioned interrogation. This is Friday night.
Concrete warehouse. Music thumping low from someone’s speaker. Half a dozen men leaning against crates or sitting on overturned barrels, betting cash and bruises. Some of them are Brotherhood. Some of them are Brotherhood-adjacent. All of them know the rules.
No knives. No guns. No permanent damage.
Everything else is fair.
The guy in front of me—Rafe, I think—lunges again. He’s broad, mean-looking, built like a brick wall with anger issues. He’s grinning despite the split lip. “Still holding back?” he taunts.
I grin back. “Always.”
He swings hard this time. I let the punch graze my shoulder just to see the hope flash in his eyes before I pivot and drive my fist into his ribs. The air leaves him in a sharp grunt.
There’s a ripple of laughter from the sidelines.
“Break something, Havoc!” someone calls.
“Buy me dinner first,” I reply.
Rafe comes at me again, this time with a tackle. We go down in a mess of limbs and concrete and impact. My back hits the floor, but I use the momentum, twist, and roll on top of him.
He laughs, breathless and feral. “This all you got?”
I slam my forehead into his nose. Now he’s the one seeing stars.
I stand up slowly, offering him a hand like a gentleman. He slaps it away and pushes himself up without help. “You’re getting sloppy,” he says.
“You’re getting slow,” I answer.
