Page 5 of Unhinged
It’s going to be a long eight hours, but the thought of what’s waiting for me at the end of it—Kenny’s lifeless body—keeps me going.
CHAPTER TWO
BRYDGETT
Excitement pulses through my veins like a shot of pure adrenaline, quickening my heartbeat as I make my way to Kenny’s place. He lives ten minutes from the diner, so I park two blocks away and walk the rest. Stopping on the sidewalk in front of his house, my gaze sharpens, scanning the exterior for any signs of movement. The last thing I need is a witness—can’t have anyone spoiling my fun.
The lights are off, no car in the driveway, and the street is eerily silent. Perfect. I do a quick sweep of the area. My pulse is steady and calm, ensuring I'm completely alone. Satisfied, I slip around to the back of the house, moving light and quick — one of the few perks of being an omega built small. The thrill of the hunt buzzes through me, sweet and sharp.
Reaching the back door, I pull out my trusty lock-picking kit from my hoodie pocket. Not wasting any more time, I grab the tension wrench from inside and push it into the lock. I breathe a sigh of relief when I feel the pins push up on the first try.Wiggling the wrench and noticing there is more rotation to the right, I turn the wrench again, and the lock disengages.Bingo!
If the rest of the night goes as smoothly as this, I’ll be in the money. Except I do this shit for free, paid only in smiles and thrills. Ooooh, there’s a thought, though. Maybe I should think about monetizing this talent. I could call Franko and see if he knows anyone in the assassin world. Money and murder—now there’s a thought that sends a delicious shiver down my spine.
On light feet, I creep through the kitchen and turn right down the hall toward the sound of ungodly snoring. It’s almost too easy, like the universe is handing him to me on a silver platter. There are only three doors: an empty bedroom, a bathroom, and another bedroom where Kenny is sawing logs. I push the bedroom door open slowly, wincing as it creaks, but Kenny doesn't stir. Not even a flinch. Pathetic.
His scent hits me before I’m even all the way in. Sweat. Cheap beer. And that weird sour smell, like wet clothes that sat too long in the washer. It’s gross and heavy, clinging to everything in the room. I wrinkle my nose and switch to breathing through my mouth.
I move closer, standing over him, and curl my lips. Can’t believe this bastard tried to feel me up against a dumpster and hit me when I didn’t cooperate. Minus the whole consent thing, way to set the scene.
“Wakey, wakey,” I murmur, tapping the knife against his forehead with just enough force to wake him, but not cut—yet.
As his eyes lazily open, I jump on top of him, straddling him so he can’t move his arms.
“Remember me?” I flash him a crude smile, all teeth and crazy.
“What the fuck are you doing in my house, you crazy bitch?!” His voice is rough with sleep and irritation, but there’s a thread of fear underneath.
He bucks his hips, trying to throw me off, but I’m ready. His attempts to throw me off are almost laughable, especially when I feel him start to get hard. Disgusting.
“I came to play, baby. Isn’t that what you wanted?”
“Ditch the knife then, and I’ll fuck you. I’m not into that kinky shit,” he tells me, and I can feel that he’s getting even harder as he continues to buck.
Fucking creep.
“I’d prefer to have Mr. Stabby stay and play.” I giggle. “Now, no more talking. I’m getting impatient.” With the flick of my wrist, I slide my knife across his neck, slicing through his trachea and both arteries, ensuring he can’t make any noise as he bleeds out. The coppery scent of blood hits instantly—thick and metallic—mixing with the sour tang of fear pouring off him.
His eyes widen in shock and his hands flail weakly as blood pours from the wound, his life draining away. There’s a moment, just a brief one, where his gaze meets mine, full of confusion and terror, and then nothing.
Silence.
I climb off him, my breath steady as I head to the bathroom to rinse my knife.
As I come back to the bedroom to make sure Kenny is dead, the rumble of motorcycle engines startles me. Running to the window that looks out to the street, I carefully crack the blinds and see a group of men parking their Harleys in front of Kenny’s house.
Fuck. Renegade MC. This is bad.
My mind races, and for a split second, I feel the icy fingers of fear grip my heart. No time to panic, Brydge. You need a plan, and fast.
I dart to the window next to the bed, carefully pushing it open just enough to drop Mr. Stabby into the bushes below. There’sno way I’m leaving him behind, not after all we’ve been through. But I can’t let them find it on me, either.
My stomach churns, and for one terrifying moment, a new fear creeps in—what if they can smell me? What if they know I’m an Omega?
Then I shake it off. Duh. I take my suppressants every morning like clockwork. There’s no scent for them to catch. I just need to keep my head.
This is going to suck, but it’s my only shot.
I strip down to my bra and panties, throw my clothes all around the side of the bed, and crawl into the bed next to Kenny. Sliding under the blanket, I press my body close to Kenny’s cooling corpse, the feel of his blood-slicked skin against mine making me want to gag. I lay my head on the pillow, closing my eyes, forcing myself to slow my breathing as I hear the front door crash open.
