Page 119 of My Unhinged Alphas
“That’s not what I asked.”
My laugh comes out thin and ugly. “No, Knox, I don’t have a neat little index of every temporary bedroom and every adult who forgot me when it was convenient.”
His jaw tightens, but he lets that pass.
“Some homes were fine. Fine meaning nobody hit me and I got fed on time, which is apparently a very low bar but still. Some were worse.” I tilt my head a little, like I’m trying to remember whether it was rain or sun. “Nothing too dramatic. I wasn’t Harry Potter. No locked basements. No cigarette burns. Just the usual cheap stuff.”
Vale’s eyes stay on me. Too human, too understanding. I don’t like it.
Knox says, “Usual.”
I laugh once. “You know. Slaps when you talked back. Getting yanked around by the arm hard enough to bruise. Mouths washed out with soap because God forbid a foster kid develop a personality. Being told you eat too much, talk too much, take up too much space.” I shrug again. “Real family-values kind of material.”
Knox says, “Did anyone keep you for long?”
I look at him. The way he asks it makes something in my chest pull tight in a bad way.
“Not really,” I say. “I was easy to move around. Quiet enough. Old enough. Not cute enough for people who wanted babies, not damaged enough for the ones who wanted savior points. Just sort of… there.” The words come out lighter than they feel.
I force a little laugh. “I was basically administrative clutter. Human leftovers. Nobody’s first choice, but sometimes available on short notice.”
Vale speaks before Knox can say anything else. “Any memories before the homes?” His voice is quieter than Knox’s. Worse for it somehow. There’s no pressure in it. Just the question itself, laid in front of me like something I could pick up if I wanted.
I look at him.
For a second, I almost say no just to end this. But something about the way he asks it catches under my skin.
“Not really,” I say.
Havoc tilts his head. “Not really isn’t no.”
I close my eyes for half a second.
This is a mistake. I can feel it. Because the second I let my mind go backward, it doesn’t do it gently. It stutters. Skips. Gives me nothing, then too much.
“There are pieces,” I say slowly. “Nothing clear. Nothing useful.”
“Try,” Knox says.
I laugh again, tired and frayed. “You say that like memory is a locked drawer.”
“Sometimes it is.”
I look at him. “And what? You think if I pull hard enough, a secret family falls out?”
“No,” Vale says.
All of us look at him.
He’s still watching me. Not hard. Not soft either. Just steady.
“I think,” he says, “something scared you early enough that your mind buried it.”
I hate how plausible that sounds.
I hate even more that the second he says it, something inside me shifts. Just slightly. Like a door in a dark house cracking open.
I look down at my hands. They’re twisted together too tightly in my lap. “I remember moving,” I say, my voice quieter now. “Boxes sometimes. Car rides. Different houses. New rules every few months.” I swallow. “Different names for me. Different names I was supposed to use for adults. A lot of being told to behave. A lot of being grateful.”
