Page 42 of My Unhinged Alphas
I back away from the window, frustration tightening every muscle in my body. I don’t know where I am. I don’t know who these men are. I don’t know why they saved me—or if they saved me at all. And I definitely don’t know why one of them can kiss like that, like he was made to ruin someone’s equilibrium.
A sharp knock jolts me.
I spin around.
The door isn’t fully closed, just pushed almost shut. It creaks open slowly, and I freeze because something in my instincts screams that whoever is behind it isn’t the quiet blond man with the haunted eyes. The footsteps are heavy. Confident.
And then he walks in. The amused one. The one who laughed while holding a bloody blade in that basement. The one whose shadow feels too big for any room to hold.
He fills the doorway with broad shoulders, tattoos peeking out from his shirt, eyes gleaming with something that looks dangerously close to delight.
“Well, good morning, sweetheart,” he drawls, like we’re in a rom-com instead of a concrete panic room. “Sleep okay?”
I swallow hard. My heart kicks, and I straighten instinctively, pulse hammering in my throat as the man steps fully into the room. He’s tall—broader than the blond one—dark hair, controlled posture, expression unreadable. Not amused. Not warm. Just… assessing.
Exactly the kind of man who doesn’t need a weapon to be dangerous.
My fingers curl at my sides. “Who are you?” I manage, though my voice comes out thinner than I want.
He stops a few feet from me, boots planted, arms loose at his sides in a way that somehow looks more threatening than crossed arms ever could. He tilts his head just slightly, studying me like he’s cataloging weaknesses, exits, pulse points.
“Knox,” he says finally.
Just that.
I swallow. “And… what exactly is a ‘Knox’ supposed to be?”
His brow lifts the slightest bit—like the question wasn’t what he expected, but he’s not offended either. More… curious. “Not your enemy,” he answers. “If that’s what you’re asking.”
Which is not the same thing as friend.
Not even close.
He takes another step in, slow, deliberate, making sure I see every inch of movement. A man trained to never startle prey, just corral it. “And since I’ve told you my name, I think I deserve to know yours.”
My back hits the edge of the window frame before I realize I’m retreating. Crap, I already told the other guy my real name. Lying now would do me no good.
“Lena,” I finally say.
“Lena,” he repeats.
I swallow hard.
“Relax,” Knox says quietly. “If we wanted to hurt you, you wouldn’t be standing.”
My breath catches. “That’s supposed to be comforting?”
“Supposed to be honest,” he replies.
His eyes flick over my shoulder, toward the bolted window I clearly failed to open, and then drift back to me with a look that suggests he’s noticing things I don’t mean to reveal—panic, observation, the fact that I’m already calculating escape routes.
He nods once, as if confirming something to himself. “You shouldn’t be moving around alone,” he adds. “Vale should’ve stayed with you.”
I freeze.
Vale. So that’s the blond one’s name.
Knox steps farther into the room, his boots whispering against the concrete, his expression unreadable. It’s the kind of look that says he notices every detail and files it away for later. “Are you hurt?” he asks.
