Red hot.
Scorching through every vein in the same way the rum and set fire to my throat.
I tossed the glass into the trash with more force than necessary, taking satisfaction in the final crack as it shattered completely at the bottom of the bin. The sound echoed in the empty kitchen, then faded to nothing.
I didn't have time for useless, brittle things.
Not the glass. Not myself. Not whatever the hell was happening to my pack.
I wiped my hands on my tattered jeans and stood straighter, pulling my shoulders back. The alcohol had done its job—numbed me just enough to function, not enough to forget. I needed to get a handle on whatever this was before it broke something that couldn't be replaced.
I grabbed my phone from the counter, checking the time—3:47 AM. Weather app said it was twenty-nine degrees out. Too late for sleep, too early for action. I'd go for a ride, maybe. Clear my head with speed and icy air. Maybe I’d be reckless. Maybe I’d lead some of Vegas’s fine officers on a little chase. Or maybe I'd check on the others, track them down wherever they'd gone to lick their wounds. That would be the responsible move.
Because someone needed to hold us together. Someone needed to see the cracks before they spread too far. That someone had always been me. It had to keep being me. I couldn’t fail my pack now.
Just one more night though.
One more night to wallow in my fucking misery.
I flicked off the kitchen light, leaving the empty bottles on the counter. Tomorrow, I'd have answers. Tomorrow, I'd figure out what was eating at all of us.
Tonight, I just needed to outrun my thoughts for a few more hours.
9
ASHER
{One month ago}
The steady trickle of blood and salty sweat blinded my left eye as I drove my fist into the Alpha's jaw again. The impact vibrated up my arm, adding another layer of pain to the symphony already playing through my body.
It felt so damn good.
Electric.
With each brutal fist that slammed into my body, I clawed at life. Every time I rammed my knuckles into my opponent, I breathed easier, even with rib fractures and bruised lungs.
The warmth of a fire faded too fast.
Fucking left me hollow.
Death-defying stunts didn’t get my heart racing either. Though, they should. Sticking the landing was growing harder. My focus was so damn foggy. My body didn’t respond quick enough. Everything about me was on the fritz, and the damage was spreading like a wildfire.
Losing my confidence invited fear. In a strange way, it felt amazing.
When was the first time I’d felt fear?Probably finding my mom overdosed on the bathroom floor, bottle of pills spilled out across the tile. Blue pills. Against white tile. Still so damn vivid. Even though I was a snot nosed kid at the time, not even three feet tall yet, I remembered every detail.
When was the last time I really felt afraid?Beaten to a pulp by my fifth Alpha foster dad because the APS check was late. That was before I got bigger, before I got stronger.
But even a weak ass kid can turn on the gas and light a match.
Blowing up that motherfucker’s house got me a one-way ticket to a joint facility with other lost causes. I’d been heading there anyways. Every foster home that took me in got hit by an ‘accidental’ fire. The Alpha orphanage was better. That’s where I’d met my pack, my brothers-in-pain.
I dodged a haymaker, then shuffled to the side when he rushed me, ready to shove me up against the ropes. If he got me there, he’d brutalize my body with dozens of quick jabs to the stomach.
This was the last match of the night. Two in the morning. The underground fight club heaved around us, a pit of shadows and shouting faces rendered faceless by the single spotlight above the ring. My opponent staggered but didn't fall. Tough bastard. I'd give him that.
Metallic flavor danced on my tongue. I spat a mouthful of crimson-tinged saliva onto the canvas and circled him, ignoring the throbbing pulse of my swollen eye and the sharp stitch in my side that suggested a cracked rib or two. The other Alpha—his name became irrelevant the second this battle began—mirrored my movements. His chest heaved with exertion, but his eyes remained sharply calculating. In rivulets of red, blood trickled from a gash above his left brow creating a crimson half mask.The sight might be terrifying to someone less desensitized to violence.
