Page 28 of My Unhinged Alphas
“That,” Havoc says quietly, almost reverently, “was brilliant.”
Vale says nothing. He simply steps forward, already moving toward the staircase. His stride is careful, precise. When he reaches the broken railing, he pauses to examine the splintered wood, as if cataloging the break, then starts down.
Havoc glances at me, a crooked grin tugging at his mouth. “You didn’t even see him.”
“I saw him,” I say, though we both know that isn’t entirely true.
Vale reaches the bottom of the stairs and crouches beside the fallen man. He grips the knife’s handle and studies it for a brief second before pulling it free in one smooth motion. Bloodfollows, dark and thick. He wipes the blade carefully on the dead man’s jacket.
Havoc leans over the broken railing. “Aw,” he calls down lightly, “is that your favorite one?”
Vale doesn’t look up. He inspects the edge instead, thumb hovering just shy of the blade, checking for nicks or dulling. Satisfied, he slides it back into the sheath strapped inside his jacket. Then he finally lifts his gaze toward us. Expression calm. Waiting.
We descend the stairs together. The man’s body lies twisted at the bottom, neck bent at an impossible angle, head turned too far to one side. His eyes are still open, staring at nothing.
I step around him without slowing. “Havoc,” I say, voice controlled but still tight, “this is exactly what I’m talking about. You escalate, you shift focus, and then—” I stop.
Not because of the body. Not because of the blood pooled beneath it.
Because beyond the dead man, half-hidden in the dim spill of light from a flickering bulb, there’s another room. And inside it?—
A chair. Metal. Bolted to the concrete floor.
A figure tied to it.
For half a second, my brain refuses to register what I’m seeing. Then it does.
A woman. Wrists bound to the arms of the chair. Ankles secured. Head tilted forward like she’s asleep, dark hair falling across her face. There’s dried blood on the floor not far from her, though none I can see on her skin.
She’s breathing. Slow. Shallow.
Alive.
The air in my lungs stalls. This wasn’t in the briefing. There was no mention of a civilian. No intel suggesting a hostage. The Brotherhood doesn’t tolerate loose variables.
I step forward without thinking, every instinct shifting.
The dead target upstairs no longer matters. The report doesn’t matter. The Apostles don’t matter. All I see is the woman in the chair, and the way her fingers twitch weakly against the rope.
Chapter 4
Lena
I wakeup like I’ve been dropped from somewhere high. One second, nothing. The next, air punches into my lungs and I jerk upright, heart slamming so hard it feels like it’s trying to break out of my ribs.
I’m not tied. That’s the first thing I register.
My wrists are free. My legs move when I tell them to. The mattress beneath me is firm, unfamiliar, and the sheets smell faintly like detergent that isn’t mine.
I don’t know this bed. I don’t know this room.
I sit very still.
Dim, gray early-morning light is leaking in from a window I can’t see directly. The walls are plain. Sparse. Too sparse. No art. No clutter. No signs of anyone living here in any normal way.
Except—
My gaze catches on something above the opposite wall.
