Page 94 of My Unhinged Alphas
“And no more mystery dates,” Mara adds.
That almost makes me smile.
Almost.
“Yeah,” I say quietly. “I can promise that. Especially since going on the date was your idea.”
“Well, no more of that,” Jess says. “At least not online.”
“No shit,” I say. “I’m just done with men in general.”
I focus on the coffee because it gives my hands something to do. Grind. Tamp. Lock the portafilter in place. Steam the milk. Pour. Wipe. Repeat.
Simple. Mechanical. Safe.
Except my brain won’t stay with me.
I’m stirring a drink when it hits me again, sudden and ugly, not like a thought so much as a flash. Hands. Mouths. Heat. The sound of my own breathing gone unsteady. The press of bodies too close, too much, too confusing now that I’m standing under warm café lights with a spoon in my hand.
My grip tightens. The spoon taps too hard against the side of the cup.
I clear my throat and force myself to keep moving.
I tried looking up the Brotherhood this morning, sitting on my bed with my phone plugged into the wall, thumb shaking every time I typed.Brotherhood. Apostles. Andrew.
Nothing useful.
Just forums, a fantasy book series, some stupid Reddit thread, a church group in Ohio, and one very earnest blog post about spiritual brotherhood that made me want to throw my phone.
No secret organization. No trail. No proof that last night was anything other than some insane fever dream with too many good-looking psychopaths in it.
And it’s been bothering me all day. Because what if I overreacted? Not to the dead body. Not to the house. Not to the fear. But to everything Havoc told me after.
What if half of it was him screwing with my head because that’s what he does? What if he saw I was scared and just kept pushing because he liked the reaction?
Theydidsave me. That part is true no matter how many times I turn it around in my mind.
The bell over the café door chimes.
“Next,” I call automatically. A man steps up to the counter. I barely look at him at first, just grab a cup and marker, the routine carrying me through it. “What can I get started for you?”
“Black coffee.”
“Size?”
“Medium.”
I nod, reaching for the cup. “Name?”
A beat.
Then, calm and low, “Knox.”
Everything in me stops.
The paper cup slips straight out of my hand. It hits the floor and rolls away.
I look up too fast. It’s him.
