Page 19 of My Unhinged Alphas
Around us, the men circle tighter, enjoying the show. There’s no point to this. Not really. And I like it that way.
I crack my neck and step forward again, letting him land one this time. It splits my lip. The metallic taste hits my tongue and I smile wider. “There it is,” I say approvingly.
Rafe charges.
I sidestep, hook his arm, and use his own weight to slam him face-first into a stack of pallets. The wood shudders. He groans.
I grab the back of his shirt and haul him upright. “You done?” I murmur in his ear.
“Not even close.”
I like that answer.
I let him go just enough for him to turn around before I drive my fist into his jaw. He staggers back when I let him go, blood running from his nose in an enthusiastic stream.
He grins. “That all you got, old man?”
Old.
I laugh and roll my shoulder where he clipped me earlier. The scar there pulls tight under my shirt, a souvenir from a desert that tried to keep me.
“Careful,” I tell him. “I’ve been shot more times than you’ve had serious relationships.”
A couple of the guys snort.
Rafe wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “You talk too much.”
“I multitask,” I correct, and then I’m on him again.
He swings wide. I duck and drive my elbow into his ribs. Controlled. Always controlled. I could break him. I don’t. I’m not here to ruin him.
Not tonight.
He tries to tackle me. I let him get close enough to think it’s working before I pivot and use his weight to slam him into a support beam. The impact echoes. He drops to one knee, coughing.
I step back and flex my hands. The pain in my knuckles is familiar. Comfortable. It reminds me I’m here.
Around us, the warehouse smells like sweat and dust and old oil. A handful of men lean against crates, watching with varying degrees of approval. Some of them wear the same quiet mark I do. Some don’t.
It doesn’t matter. They know who I am.
Rafe spits blood at my boots and laughs again. He likes this. They all do. This isn’t about grudges. It’s about edge. About reminding ourselves that we can still take a hit and stand back up.
I offer him a hand. He slaps it away and pushes himself upright without help.
Good.
“Still holding back,” he accuses.
“I don’t break toys unless I’m done playing,” I reply.
There’s another ripple of laughter from the side. One of the newer guys mutters something about my temper. I hear it.
I always hear it.
They think I’m unhinged. They’re half-right.
I step forward again, but slower this time, letting Rafe breathe. I circle him once, measuring. He’s strong. Sloppy, but strong.
