Page 43 of My Unhinged Alphas
The question is clinical, like he’s conducting an evaluation rather than checking on me. I almost laugh—bitter, shaky—because this whole morning is some kind of nightmare logic puzzle.
“No,” I say. “Just confused. And, you know, kidnapped.”
He doesn’t smile. He just observes me a second longer, eyes sweeping from my tangled hair to my socked feet to the window behind me.
“You shouldn’t go near that,” he says with a small nod toward it. “It’s secured for a reason.”
“Yeah, I noticed,” I mutter. “Hard to miss the industrial-grade bolts. Nice touch, by the way. Super welcoming.”
A flicker crosses his face—amusement? irritation?—too quick for me to parse.
“This isn’t meant to welcome you,” he replies. “It’s meant to keep you safe.”
“From what?” I shoot back. “From you?”
He doesn’t rise to the bait. Instead, he takes one smooth, unhurried step closer. The kind that makes prey stop breathing. “From worse,” he says simply.
Worse.
Great. Comforting. Absolutely fantastic.
My fingers curl around the windowsill behind me. “I’d really love a list of the things that are worse than three masked men dragging me out of a basement full of blood.”
“You’ll get answers,” he says. “When it’s safe.”
“And I’m just supposed to trust you on that?”
“No,” he says. “You’re supposed to listen.”
Something tightens low in my stomach. Not fear—well, yes, fear, but not just fear. Authority suits him in a way I don’t want to think about.
I lift my chin. “And Vale? Is he supposed to ‘listen’ too?”
His eyes narrow, jaw ticking once. “Vale’s situation is different.”
I blink. “Different how?”
“Doesn’t matter,” he says. A dismissal. A door closing. But something in his tone is off. Not careless, not cold—more like he’s watching a fault line form under my feet and is waiting to see whether I notice it.
I fold my arms. “You know, you guys really need to work on your hostage bedside manners.”
“We’re not your enemies,” he says again. Not defensive. Not trying to convince me. Just stating it like fact.
“And I’m not your friend,” I fire back.
His eyes drop to my mouth for the briefest second, and my heart stutters.
He steps closer. Too close.
“Maybe not,” he says quietly. “But you’re under our protection now.”
The wordprotectionhits differently coming from him—heavy, weighted, promising danger and safety in the same breath.
“Why?” I whisper.
“You shouldn’t be moving around alone,” he says again instead of answering my question. “You’re still recovering from whatever that asshole put in your drink.”
Ethan. The name hits like a punch.
