He’s a fucking dead man.
TWENTY-EIGHT
jake
I haveno words for what’s ripping through me when I see Felton standing there, trying to remove that chair from the door.
Failure. Raw, crushing failure sits like a stone in my gut.
I failed her.
The thought loops in my head, relentless. We let her walk away alone. Left her when she was vulnerable, when she needed us most—when my Alpha instincts were screaming not to. And now?—
What if he really hurt her?
The questions tear through me like claws. My Alpha is boiling with rage and fear—pure, primal fury at the idea of anyone hurting our Omega. At this bastard putting his hands on her, trapping her, terrorizing her while we were?—
I will never make this up to her.
The thought crashes into me with devastating certainty. Even if she’s physically okay, even if we get her out of there right now, how do I ever apologize for not being there? For not protecting her when she needed it most?
Felton looks up as we approach. For half a second—just a fraction of a moment—there’s fear in his eyes. Raw, genuine fear.
Good. He should be afraid. Deathly afraid. If he had any idea what I want to do to him, he’d be pissing himself.
But then that fear is gone from his eyes, replaced by something sick. Something triumphant. A smile spreads across his face that makes me want to put my fist through it until there’s nothing left but blood and broken bone.
And I understand—truly understand for the first time—the true depths of his obsession with her.
Why? The question flashes through my mind in the liminal space between rage and action. Why has no one seen this? How has he been APBRA staff for twenty fucking years—at least—and no one ever caught this?
How many other Omegas has he done this to? How many has he hurt?
The questions exist for only a heartbeat, suspended between Mark’s fear and his triumph, between my horror and my fury.
Then he opens his mouth.
“Too late, boys.”
The words are smug. Satisfied. Like he’s already won.
I’m about to launch myself at him—to tear him apart with my bare hands—when Beau lunges first.
“What the fuck did you do?” The roar that comes out of him doesn’t sound human. It’s all Alpha, all rage, all lethal promise. “Where is she?”
Beau’s hand closes around Felton’s collar, and suddenly the bastard’s toes are barely touching the ground. Beau slams him against the wall hard enough that his head bounces off the cinderblock. Hard enough that I feel the impact in my own bones, hear the sickening crack of skull meeting concrete.
Felton’s face starts turning red. Then purple.
I realize distantly that Beau is choking him—his grip on the collar twisted so tight it’s cutting off his air completely.
I don’t care. I want to watch him turn blue. I want to see the life drain out of his eyes. I want to help Beau squeeze until?—
“Beau.” Charlie’s voice cuts through the red haze as he rushes over. “You can’t. Not like this. Let him go.”
But I’m not looking at them anymore. I’m looking at the door. At the chair that was wedged under it. At the makeshift bolt Felton rigged.
She’s in there.
