Stephen Hughes steps out of the wings.
I can't even muster up the energy to be fucking surprised.
He looks like shit.
Both eyes are bruised from when Rex rearranged his face. His nose is crooked, badly reset, the bridge swollen and discolored. Bandages peek above his collar. His prematurely gray hair is slicked back but it's wild and stupid looking, and the fact he dressed for the occasion with a crisp charcoal suit while having a bird's nest on his head makes me snort because I'm apparently still high from chloroform.
He even has a little gun on his hip.
He put it on wrong.
"Bryan," I say flatly.
A deranged smirk tugs at his lips. It's lopsided from his jaw being busted. "You always were a smart little songbird."
Of course.
Of fuckingcoursehe's Bryan.
“You’ve been pretending to be a beta.” I press my fingers into my temples because I suddenly have a migraine brewing. “And how did you even hide that? What, did you neuter yourself too? Because that's totally something you would do, you fucking creep."
His smirk falters.
It's then that I realize I can feel my knife strapped to my thigh, right by my prosthetic cock.
The absurdity of it all hits me out of nowhere.
Stephen Hughesneuteredhimself to suppress his alpha scent so I wouldn't know what he really was. He was too scared of myrubber dickthat heknowsis fucking fake to properly search me. And I have my treasured knife and I'm already thinking about how satisfying it's going to be when I stick it in Stephen's neck or chest or eyeball or somewhere else vulnerable and squishy.
A laugh bubbles up.
Hysterical, sharp, completely unhinged. It rips out of me before I can stop it and I double over against the bars, cackling.
Stephen's expression sharpens. "Shut your fucking mouth."
I'm still laughing. The chloroform definitely ruined my inhibitions because the filter between my brain and my mouth isn't just broken, it's been thoroughly demolished. "On a scale of one to ten," I wheeze, "how bi are you?"
"What the fuckare you on about?"
"No reason." Another giggle. I can't stop. "Oh my gods, you are the shittiest,lamestsupervillain on the fucking planet. This is so tacky. I'm going to die and it's going to be the tackiest death anyone has ever died."
I can't even bring myself to care that I'm running my mouth so much. If this is the end for me—and itwillbe, because I'm not letting Stephen take me anywhere even if I have to brain myself with my own knife—I'm at least going to have fun saying all the shit I've wanted to say to my stalker this entire time.
Shit I've wanted to say to Stephen, too.
Kill two birds with one stone and all that jazz.
"Lame." The composure reassembles across his bruised face like a curtain being drawn. "I glued that freak's mask with surgical adhesive so the cute little mechanism would fail, rewired the pyrotechnic sequencer, and had my people in the lighting booth for the blackout so I could spirit you away. But yes. I'mlame."
He smooths his tie and straightens, adjusting his cufflink. "A helicopter is arriving in forty minutes," he says. "Rooftop. We'll be gone before anyone knows where to look. If Vespyr somehow figures out where you are, they'll meet my guards."
They will.
Theywillfigure out where I am, because I followed the same instinct to Rex in that cemetery and there's no way in hell thesealphas that have becomemyalphas are going to let Stephen lay a finger on me.
"Of course you have a helicopter. You always were a dramatic fucking idiot. Too bad it's hard to take you seriously looking like..." I gesture at his face. The bruises, the crooked nose, the bandages. Rex's handiwork. "That."
Stephen's hand curls at his side. "That's rich," he says quietly. "Coming from a girl who spread her legs for amonster."