Page 85 of My Unhinged Alphas
“For you too, apparently.”
I shrug. “Sometimes.”
She folds her arms. “And where do you fit in?”
That one makes me grin. “You really want a chart?”
“I want one honest answer.”
I think about that for a second.
Then I give her one.
“I’m useful,” I say.
She looks unimpressed. “That’s not an answer.”
“It is. In organizations like that, usefulness matters more than titles. Titles are for people who need to feel important.”
“And Knox?”
I keep my eyes ahead. “Why do you care?”
“Because he acts like he hates you.”
I laugh again. “He probably does.”
“That didn’t answer the question.”
“No,” I say. “It didn’t.” I know she’s trying to look for weak spots, and I probably just gave her one. But I don’t care.
She shifts in her seat, restless now. Curious in that way she gets when she thinks she’s close to something.
I let her sit with it for a moment.
Then I say, “Knox and I do different jobs.”
“What jobs?”
“I make messes.”
“And he cleans them up?”
“Something like that.”
That one she actually smiles at, small and unwilling, like it slipped out before she could stop it.
I catch it.
And just like that, that weird pull is back again, low and unpleasant and impossible to ignore.
“So you’re with these people because they gave you a license to kill?” she asks.
I look at her. Just for a second.
Too long, maybe.
Because she’s closer than she realizes. Or maybe she realizes exactly how close she is and keeps pushing anyway. That’s the thing about her. She looks small, quiet, harmless, but every now and then she says something that lands a little too near the bone.
