Page 126 of Unhinged
The realization hits me like a punch to the gut.
Shit, shit, shit.
Here I am, hugging Franko, hanging on Marcus, not even thinking, and just a few hours ago I about tore that whore’s throat out for touching Arrow.
God, what am I doing?
Guilt slams into me heavy and fast. I ain't usually so touchy, not with anyone. But maybe with my heat creeping closer, thedrinks I've had, and this weird bubble of safety here... I let my guard down. My fight-or-flight instinct is dulled tonight.
And now I’m gonna fuck this all up before it even really starts.
"Thanks, Keg," I mutter, grabbing my drink and gulping half of it down fast enough it burns.
I need to go apologize. At least explain.
I scan the room, my eyes landing on Gears and Acid in the far corner, talking serious with Nitro. I’ll wait. I don’t wanna interrupt club business. I frown.
Where’s Arrow?
I don't see him anywhere.
The dance floor's packed, the pool table’s busy, but he’s not here. Just as I’m about to head for the hallway to look for him, the hairs on the back of my neck stand up straight. That icy, bone-deep feeling only two things in this life have ever given me—the feeling something’s wrong.
Judge.
My heart seizes. Something’s not right. I can feel it. Mother’s instinct, serial killer instinct, whatever you wanna call it. It's loud and clear.
I slam my drink down half-full and don't think, just move. Straight for the back door. I can't even explain why I go outside instead of through the clubhouse to Bettie’s place.
It’s just a pull. A gut-deep yank I trust without question. I shove the door open, stepping into the night air.
And there?—
Across the lot?—
I see Dillon. She’s standing by the passenger side of her new car, the pink Eclipse, half-shielding Judge behind her. But they’re not alone.
My blood runs cold. My heart kicks into overdrive, pounding so loud it’s all I can hear.
His voice cuts through the night, low and sharp, sending a shiver right down my spine.
"Hello, Omega."
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
BRYDGETT
It’s real.
My boots crunch on gravel, and my heart's hammering so loud I barely hear the door slam behind me. The air's thick with oil, hot engines... and something else. Something rotten. Like sickness and blood and bad memories.
I see better the closer I get.
Dillon’s got herself half in front of Judge, arms spread wide, chin up like she’s daring them to move.
Three men. Big. Mean-looking.
And one in front, standing cocky as hell like he owns the goddamn world.
