Page 134 of Unhinged Alphas

Ican practically taste the sterile stench of disinfectant as we prowl through the lab's stark white corridors. My boots whisper against the polished floor, each step calculated and silent. Plague's shadow flickers at the edge of my vision and Whiskey lumbers behind us, his bulk at odds with the delicate equipment lining the walls.

My eyes land briefly on a security camera nestled in the corner of the ceiling, its red light blinking lazily. I scratch my head and subtlely tap my temple twice, reminding my team to stay alert. We can't risk speaking out of character, not when every word could be recorded and used against us.

Plague nods, understanding my silentcommand. His movements are fluid and precise as he swipes his keycard and slips into a control room. If the temporary card worked, I sincerely doubt there's anything of use in here, but it's worth exploring anyway. I turn my attention to the windows lining the far wall. They're reinforced, but not impenetrable. I make a mental note of their placement. Potential exit points if things go sideways.

And in our line of work, thingsalwaysgo sideways.

A muffled clatter echoes through the room. I whip around, hand instinctively reaching for my weapon. Whiskey stands frozen, a toppled stack of petri dishes scattered on the floor at his boots. I glare at him, my jaw clenching with barely contained frustration. His carelessness could jeopardize the entire operation.

But Plague wastes no time swooping in, his voice dripping with disdain as he rounds on Whiskey. "You absolute buffoon! What are you doing, touching delicate equipment with your grubby paws?" His words are sharp, clipped, the perfect imitation of an irritated scientist.

Whiskey's eyes widen, a hintof panic flashing across his face. He opens his mouth, but no sound comes out. I can see the gears turning in his head, struggling to come up with a suitable response that won't give us away.

Plague doesn't give him the chance. He turns to me sharply. "This is why we don't need muscle-bound cavemen traipsing through our labs. Look at the mess," he hisses, waving a gloved hand at the petri dishes at Whiskey's feet.

I grit my teeth, biting back the growl that threatens to escape. Every instinct screams at me to put him in his place. But I can't. Not with the cameras watching our every move, not with our mission hanging by a thread.

So I swallow my pride and play along. "My apologies, Doctor," I grit out in my best Vrissian accent. It's not as good as Plague's, not by a long shot. "We'll be more careful."

Plague sniffs, a little too realistically. "See that you are. These experiments are far too important to be jeopardized by you… clumsy oafs." He slips past us, back into the corridor. "Clean that up."

I crouch down, scooping up the scattered petri dishes with barely concealed irritation. Whiskey's face is flushed, his jaw clenched so tightI can see a vein throbbing in his neck. He's not acting anymore. He's actually pissed off.

"Easy," I mutter under my breath, low enough that only he can hear. "It's just a show."

Whiskey grunts, shoving a handful of broken glass into the nearby disposal unit with more force than necessary. "Fucking dick," he growls. "Always gotta take it too far."

I shoot him a warning glance. Now isn't the time for his bruised ego to compromise our cover. "Cut the chatter and focus."

Can't blame him, really. Even though I tend to be more calculated than Whiskey, my alpha instincts are roaring at me to tear the whole lab apart and deal with the fallout later.

We work in tense silence, gathering the last of the debris. I can feel Whiskey's anger radiating off him in waves, filling the air with the acrid scent of an alpha on edge. It sets my own teeth on edge, my instincts bristling at the challenge.

I take a deep breath, forcing my muscles to relax. We can't afford to lose control, not here, not now.

As we finish, I catch movement out of the corner of my eye. Plague's leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, smirking menacingly at us. For amoment, I want nothing more than to wipe that smug posture right off him. He's a little too deep into this character of his, if it's even a character at all. It's convincing enough, I'm not actually sure.

But that's not the mission.

I straighten up, adopting the stiff, uncomfortable posture of a soldier playing at being a lab grunt. "All cleaned up, Doctor," I say, my Vrissian accent slipping slightly. "Where to next?"

Plague tilts his head, considering. I can tell he's enjoying this little power play. "Follow me," he says finally, his own accent flawless. "And try not to break anything else."

We fall into step behind him, Whiskey's heavy footfalls echoing in the sterile hallway. I keep my senses on high alert, cataloging every door, every potential exit. The lab is a maze of white corridors and reinforced glass, each turn revealing another identical stretch of clinical efficiency.

A group of scientists rounds the corner ahead, their crisp lab coats a stark contrast to our utilitarian uniforms. I tense, ready for a confrontation, but they barely spare us a glance. To them, we're just more faceless grunts, not worth their precious time.

It's almost insulting how easily we blend in.

A crash echoes through the corridor, followed bythe clank of chains and the thud of heavy footsteps. My body goes rigid, every muscle coiled tight as I strain to listen. The sound grows louder, a cacophony of metal and flesh.

Then I see him.

Wraith.

My brother.

He stumbles into view, a mountain of muscle reduced to a shuffling wreck. A thick chain circles his neck like a dog's collar, the links rattling with each labored step. His arms, those powerful limbs that have torn men apart, are shackled behind his back.