Page 46 of Unhinged
Judge whispers, "Okay," before spinning back to shout, "You better save my mom, Grandpa!"
We follow Ike deeper into the house, past dimly lit hallways and into a room that smells faintly of antiseptic and old wood. He opens a door that leads to a basement, descending the steps with Brydgett still limp in his arms.
The basement is a stark contrast to the house above—bright, sterile, and organized. A large fluorescent light hums overhead, casting everything in a harsh, clinical glow. A metal table sits in the center, surrounded by shelves cluttered with supplies. Ike sets Brydgett down carefully, like she's made of glass.
"What the fuck is this?" Gears snaps, eyes scanning the setup. "Why the hell do you have something like this in your basement?"
Ike spins on him, snatching a pair of scissors from the counter. "Not that it’s any of your damn concern," he growls, "but I've patched Brydgett up before. Not to mention my fighterswhen they need it. Doctors are expensive, and sometimes they can’t seek trained medical attention. You should know that better than anyone. Unless your parents hit the crack pipe for far too long and actually named you Gears. I’m assuming that's a road name, which means you’re the three fuckheads my girl here’s been running from."
"Watch your mouth," Gears warns.
"Or what?" Ike barks back. "You gonna play tough guy while your omega bleeds out in front of you? How about you pull your head out of your ass and help me save her instead?"
Gears clenches his fists, but his eyes flick to Brydgett’s face. Her breathing is too shallow, her skin too pale. He swears under his breath and steps closer to the table, eyes sharp and cold.
"What do you need?" Arrow asks quietly.
"Clean towels. Alcohol. And that red box on the shelf," Ike barks.
We move fast, working in tandem like a well-oiled machine. My pulse pounds in my ears, drowning out everything but Brydgett’s ragged breathing and the low murmur of Ike’s instructions. My stomach twists when I see just how much blood she’s lost.
I step up to the table, my hands shaking as I reach for her. Her hair is matted to her forehead, auburn strands clinging to her skin. I gently brush it back, trying to make it right, trying to fix a fraction of the mess I’ve made. My fingers tremble as they skim across her skin, and I tell myself it shouldn't faze me. I’ve seen worse—done worse. But this? This is my fucking omega.
I can't keep my hand steady. I shouldn't feel this. But I do.
The weight of regret presses down on me harder than the blood soaking her shirt.
"I’m sorry," I whisper, the words tasting bitter in my mouth. It’s not enough. It’ll never be enough. I’ve been a fucking idiot. A monster.
My heart aches as I look down at her pale face, the woman I’ve hurt. The woman I should’ve protected.
If she even gives me the chance, I swear I’ll spend every second showing her just how wrong I was. How much I’d give to take back every stupid decision, every asshole moment in the clubhouse basement. But I can’t undo it. Not all of it.
I swallow the lump in my throat, fighting the urge to choke on the apology that feels too small, too late.
"I’m a right asshole, a prick really," I mutter. "But not to you. Never to you, Brydgett. Not again. You deserve more. And if you’ll let me, I’ll spend every damn minute of my life proving that I’m not the man I’ve been. I’ll show you. I swear I will."
I don’t look up, don’t even expect her to hear me. But I can’t stop the flood of guilt rushing through me.
I take a deep breath, forcing myself to push past the suffocating remorse. I can’t let myself break down now, not in front of her, not when she's hanging by a thread. I brush her hair back one more time, steadying my hands. My heart pounds like a war drum, thudding in my chest, and I let the rage simmer beneath my skin.
When she’s on the mend, when she’s safe—then I’ll let it all loose. I’ll track down the bastard who did this to her. The son of a bitch who ran her off the road, who shot her. And I’ll make him wish he’d never taken a breath.
The image of him crawling, begging for mercy, flashes in my mind. But I won’t give him the satisfaction of stopping. No, I’ll pull every organ from his fucking body, piece by piece, until there’s nothing left, but a broken shell begging me to stop.
I’ll take my time with him. Every second I make him suffer, I’ll savor. But the best part? One of those organs will be the one he can’t live without. When that happens, I’ll make him understand what real pain feels like. And only then will I put him out of his misery.
But first, I need to make sure Brydgett is breathing. I need her to stay with me. And once she’s stronger, I’ll hunt down the fucker who tried to take her from me.
For now, I keep my focus on her. My woman. My omega.
“Step the fuck back, Acid,” Ike growls. “You ain't helping her standing there like a dumbass.”
My fists clench, the urge to argue rising in my chest, but I swallow it. He’s right. I take a step back as I try to keep my composure. But it's hard, seeing her like this, seeing the blood soaking her side, and knowing I played a part in her pain. I ball my fists and bite my tongue, watching Ike move with the calm confidence of someone who’s seen too much.
Ike pulls open the red box with quick hands, grabbing IV bags. "She’s lost a lot of blood. We’ll get her on a drip and give her some blood just in case."
He sets up the IV, inserting the needle with precision. "Gears, Arrow, get her positioned," Ike orders, and they immediately move to hold her steady while Ike hooks up the IV drip. The faint beep of the IV machine is the only sound that fills the room.
