Page 99 of My Unhinged Alphas
My stomach twists. “My friends?—”
“I know.”
“Knox—”
“I know,” he repeats, but not at me. At the room. At the noise. At the impossible amount of things happening at once. Heglances toward the counter, then back to me. “When I move you, you move. No arguing.”
“I wasn’t planning to argue during the gunfight, actually.”
He gives me a flat look. “Your recent performance suggests otherwise.”
I would be offended if he weren’t extremely correct.
There’s a pause in the gunfire. Not silence. The diner is still full of shouting and crying and breaking things. But the shooting stops for half a second, and Knox’s whole focus shifts.
He leans down just a fraction closer. “Ready?”
“No,” I say immediately.
His expression doesn’t change. “Unfortunate.”
He doesn’t give me a chance to brace. The second there’s an opening, Knox moves, one arm sliding around me, and then I’m off the floor so fast I barely process it. He lifts me like I weigh nothing. Actually nothing. One moment I’m crouched in broken glass and panic, the next I’m against his chest, my feet nowhere near the ground, his body already in motion.
I gasp. “What are you doing?”
“Saving time.”
Around us, the diner is still chaos. People crying, shouting, glass crunching under shoes, somebody yelling for everyone to get down. Knox doesn’t hesitate. He carries me through it like he’s done this a hundred times, one hand keeping me steady, the other still holding the gun low and ready.
“Back door,” he says. “Where?”
It takes my brain a second to catch up. “W-what?”
He looks at me once, impatient. “Lena. Back door.”
I point past the counter, toward the narrow hall by the bathrooms. “There.”
He doesn’t waste another second. He sets me down just enough that I can run and then his hand is at my back, steeringme hard in the right direction. The force of it startles me. Not rough exactly. Just certain.
We sprint through the hall, my shoes slipping a little on the tile, my breath tearing in and out too fast. Knox is right behind me, then beside me, then somehow ahead enough to shove the door open and pull me through into the night.
Outside, it’s already dark. The alley behind the diner is narrow and damp, lit only by a flickering security light and a weak spill of yellow from the back door. The air hits my lungs cold and dirty, smelling like old grease, wet concrete, and exhaust.
Then I see them. A few dark cars parked without markings near the mouth of the lane. Four men, maybe more, spread out around them like they’ve been waiting. One of them turns at the sound of the door banging open.
He sees us.
“Go,” Knox snaps.
I don’t argue.
We run.
My heart is pounding so hard it feels like it’s in my throat, in my ears, in the soles of my feet. Knox keeps me moving with one hand at my arm, guiding, pushing, pulling me around puddles and trash bins and the uneven patches of pavement. The alley narrows, then breaks into another lane, darker than the first, hemmed in by brick walls and overflowing dumpsters.
Behind us, footsteps. Fast.
They spotted us immediately, and now they’re coming. I can hear them closing in, shoes pounding concrete, one of them shouting something I can’t make out. I risk one glance over my shoulder and instantly regret it. Too close. They’re too close.
