Page 30 of My Unhinged Alphas
No, the builds didn’t match. Ethan was smooth. Polished. Carefully styled. The men in masks were built like they used their bodies for work, not selfies.
And there was blood. So much blood.
I stand carefully, testing my balance. The room doesn’t spin this time, but there’s still a heaviness behind my eyes, like I haven’t fully metabolized whatever was in that drink.
The door. There’s only one. Closed. No lock on my side. That’s almost worse, because if I’m not tied, and I’m not locked in?—
Then I’m here because someone thinks I won’t run. Or because they think I can’t.
I scan again for my phone, like it might magically appear if I look hard enough.
Nothing.
No bag. No wallet. No trace of my life outside this room.
I take one careful step toward the door. The floor is cool under my socks. My pulse is loud in my ears, but everything else is silent. If I can just open it quietly—if there’s a hallway, a window, literally anything?—
“Going somewhere?”
The voice comes from behind me.
I freeze. My fingers hover inches from the handle as my body locks up completely. Every muscle tightens. Slowly, carefully, I turn around.
He’s in the shadows near the far wall. I hadn’t seen him.
Blond hair catches what little light there is, but the rest of his face is hidden behind the same black mask I remember from the basement. He’s leaning back against the wall like he’s been there the entire time, watching me wake up. Watching me think.
The quiet one. Of course it’s the quiet one.
I swallow. “So,” I say lightly, because panic is not helping anyone, “if you’re planning to narrate my escape attempt, can you at least clap at the end? I feel like I deserve points for effort.”
He doesn’t move. “You’re not escaping,” he says.
“See, that feels debatable.” I straighten, forcing my shoulders back like I'm not standing in socks in a stranger's room wearing yesterday's clothes. “You could’ve said something sooner,” I add. “I’ve been talking to myself for a solid thirty seconds.”
“You were assessing the room.” His voice is steady. Observant. Not mocking.
“Wow,” I mutter. “That’s the nicest way anyone’s ever described my panic spiral.”
He steps forward slightly, still mostly swallowed by shadow. The mask makes him harder to read, but his eyes?—
His eyes are bright. Focused. Not lazy. Not bored.
Intent.
“You’re safe,” he says.
“That word again.” I glance at the door, then back at him. “You understand how the mask undermines that, right?”
A pause.
“You’re not restrained,” he says.
“Small victories. Love those.”
I take a slow breath and force myself to lean casually against the edge of the bed instead of bolting. “Where’s Ethan?” I ask,trying to keep my voice casual. Is he working with him? What sick and twisted games are they playing?
“He’s not a concern,” the man says.
