Page 123 of My Unhinged Alphas
So why now? Why her?
Why this one moment after all these years, breaking loose like it’s been sitting somewhere inside me waiting for the worst possible time?
My throat tightens. Why didn’t I remember her?
Worse, why didn’t I try?
I press a hand to my chest because it genuinely hurts there, a dull ache spreading out under my ribs.
I spent my whole life acting like none of it mattered. Like before foster care was just a blank page, inconvenient but manageable. Easier not to push at it. Easier not to ask who left me there in the first place, who lost me, who failed to come back.
Maybe I told myself I was being practical. Maybe I was just scared. Because wanting answers means admitting someone existed to answer for them.
And if she was real, if that woman was real, then where is she now?
Dead? Gone? Still hiding somewhere?
Did she lose me? Did she leave me? Did she think I was dead too?
I drag in a breath too fast and it catches halfway down. My chest hurts worse for a second, tight and hollow all at once, and I have to sit very still to keep from folding in on myself.
What kind of mess have I gotten myself into?
Yesterday I had a job. A shitty apartment. Friends who bullied me into downloading a dating app. That was my life. Small, tired, manageable.
Now there are files with my name in them. Men following me into alleys. People talking about me like I belong to some hidden war I never even knew existed. And somewhere inside all of that, a blonde woman is looking at me with terror in her face and telling me to hide.
I look up.
The bathroom window is small and dirty, set high in the wall over the toilet. The glass is rippled, old enough to blur whatever’s outside into weak gray smears. It’s probably painted shut. Or nailed. Or too narrow to fit through without breaking something important.
Still, I stare at it. And I think about running.
Not leaving politely. Not waiting for one of them to decide what happens to me next. Running. Climbing out barefoot if I have to, cutting my hands on cheap glass, landing wrong in motel gravel and just going.
Away from all three of those psychos and whatever black hole of violence they dragged into my life.
For one second, I can almost see it. Me pushing the window open. Me dropping into the dark. Me running until my lungs tear and my legs give out and nobody knows where I went.
But the image doesn’t hold.
Because then what?
If they’re right, if someone really is looking for me, then running doesn’t get me out. It just gets me lost, alone, and easier to take.
I hate that they’ve gotten inside my thinking enough that I know that.
I hate even more that they might be right.
So I stay where I am, sitting on the cold bathroom floor under the buzzing light, staring at the window like it owes me an answer. One thing is for certain. I need to get to the bottom of things.
Chapter 19
Lena
I wake up in darkness,breath caught in my throat.
For one slow, disorienting second, I don’t know what pulled me out of sleep. No sound. No hand on me. No sudden jolt of fear. Just that strange, awful feeling of being dragged up from something warm and filthy and too good to leave willingly.
