Page 32 of My Unhinged Alphas
“So, what’s the situation, stranger? Is it the case of the crazies?”
He chuckles.
“Oh my God,” I whisper. “You guys are psychos.”
“Well no,” he says. “We’re perfectly sane, except maybe Havoc. You might want to stay away from him.”
Great. Who the fuck is Havoc?
“Okay, and why are you warning me? Are you my friend now?”
Maybe he’s trying to get me to put my guard down, the same thing I’m doing right now.
He doesn’t answer right away.
The light outside shifts, slow and subtle. Pale morning pushes through the window behind him, and as the sun climbs, it outlines him in gold. His shoulders. The sharp cut of his jaw beneath the mask. The fall of his blond hair catching light at the edges.
The room comes into clearer focus. It’s bigger than I realized at first. Sparse. Almost monastic. Plain walls. No art except that rough metal cross welded crookedly above the far wall. The weld marks are visible even from here—thick, imperfect seams like someone made it with their bare hands and anger. There’s a simple dresser against one wall. No clutter. No personal photos. No television. The bed is sturdy, utilitarian, nothing decorative about it.
It doesn’t look like a hotel. It doesn’t look like a house. It looks temporary, like a place used, not lived in.
But I still have no idea where I am.
The light strengthens, and for the first time, I can properly see the breadth of him. Lean muscle under a dark shirt. The way he holds himself—upright but not stiff, like control is something he practices constantly.
“You know,” I say lightly, because if I stop talking, I might start shaking, “most people introduce themselves before looming silently in the shadows.”
“I wasn’t looming,” he says.
“You were absolutely looming.”
“I was observing.”
“Which is just looming with extra steps.”
His eyes narrow slightly, not in anger—in thought. “You shouldn’t joke,” he says quietly.
“Oh, I definitely should,” I reply. “It’s either this or hyperventilating.”
He steps closer without seeming to realize he’s doing it. The sun climbs higher behind him, and the room brightens enough that the shadows no longer swallow him completely. I can see the shape of his mouth beneath the mask. The tension in it.
“I’m extremely calm,” I reply. “On the inside, I’m screaming. But I’m choosing growth.”
A beat. The corner of his eye shifts slightly. Amusement? Maybe.
“You’re trying to control the situation,” he says.
“Yes. With sarcasm. It’s my primary survival skill.”
He studies me another long second. “Does it usually work?”
“Not always,” I admit. “But it makes me feel productive.”
The light catches the edge of his jaw through the mask. Even without seeing his full face, I can tell he’s unfairly symmetrical. Tall. Solid. Controlled in a way that isn’t loud like the other one. I shouldn’t be noticing that.
“You’re staring,” he says.
“So are you.”
