Page 131 of Unhinged Alphas

But none of that matters right now.

I catalog every detail as we round another corner. Security camera in the upper left corner, blind spot directly beneath it. Keycard access panel on the third door down. Potential weak point in the ventilation shaft above. My mind races, piecing together escape routes, mapping this labyrinth of white and chrome.

A pair of guards pass us, and I nod curtly. Keep moving. Don't engage. Thane's jaw clenches so tight I can almost hear his teeth grinding. I know what he's thinking. Somewhere in this godforsaken place, they're holding Ivy. And Wraith.

And that psychotic fuck, Valek.

The thought of Valek makes my blood boil. That sadistic, backstabbing bastard. We knew not to trust him, but kidnapping Ivy is nothing short of insane. If I gain access to him, there's no telling what I'll do. I like to think I wouldn't torture him to death whether he gives me answers or not, but I'm a different person with a scalpel in hand.

The thought of what I'd do to him, how I'dexpose every nerve ending until his throat bleeds from screaming, sends a rush of adrenaline through my veins. My fingers twitch, muscle memory recalling the precise grip needed for the most exquisite cuts.

I push the violent urge down.

Focus.

A scientist in a crisp white coat rounds the corner, his nose buried in a tablet. I tense, ready to neutralize the threat, but he brushes past without a second glance. These bastards are so used to their own superiority, they don't even bother to look up.

Their arrogance will be their downfall.

As we continue our cautious progress through the facility, snippets of overheard conversations echo in my mind. Pieces of a puzzle I've been assembling since we arrived. Whispered words about "two reclaimed assets" and "escaped experiments from the Vytoskyk lab."

It's becoming increasingly clear that both alphas share a dark history with this place. The truth is taking shape, and it's more horrific than I'd imagined.

I glance at Thane, wondering if he's put it together yet. Does he know the full extent of hisbrother's suffering? Of the horrors that shaped him into the feral beast we know?

There's no time to dwell on it now. We have a mission to complete. But I can't shake the feeling that we're walking into something far darker and more complex than a simple rescue operation.

The truth about Valek and Wraith's origins is a weapon in itself. One we might need to use before this is over.

A flash of movement catches my eye. A beta lab assistant in a pristine lab coat, her blonde hair pulled back in a severe bun that tightens her features.

Perfect.

I clear my throat, adopting the clipped consonants of a Vrissian accent. Unlike Whiskey's, my accent is actually believable. "Excuse me."

She halts, turning to face us. "Yes?"

"I've just arrived on orders from command to examine the two rogue assets you have in your possession," I explain. "Where might I find them?"

Her eyes narrow, but there's no suspicion in her gaze. Just the bored irritation of someone interrupted on their way to more important matters. "They're in high-security containment. Level B3."

I nod, as if this information is precisely what I expected. "Excellent. Lead the way."

She sighs, clearly annoyed but unwilling to refuse a superior. "Follow me."

As we trail behind her, I study the layout. More cameras. More locked doors. But also more potential exits. If we can get to B3, we'll be close to both our targets and the lower levels. Easier to disappear.

The beta's heels click as she leads us to an elevator, swiping her keycard. The elevator descends, each floor taking us deeper into the bowels of this sterile hellhole. When the doors open, the corridors are darker, the air heavy with the scent of antiseptic and something else.

Fear.

My skin crawls beneath the stolen lab coat, but I keep my face impassive. Years of practice and experience in the field have taught me to bury my emotions deep, to present nothing but cold calculation to the world.

But these familiar scents remind me of a different time.

I was younger then, idealistic. Fresh out of medical school with dreams of saving lives on the battlefield. Dreams of becoming a combat medic. There was a noble ring to the term. I'd envisioned myself as abeacon of hope in the chaos of war, saving wounded soldiers and sending them home to their families.

Reality, as it often does, had other plans.