Page 44 of My Unhinged Alphas
“Do you know him?” I ask, voice tighter than I intend.
“No,” he answers. “But men like him all blur together.”
I don’t know if that’s supposed to make me feel better, but it doesn’t.
I swallow. “What happens now?”
He studies me for a long, unreadable moment. “Now?” he says. “You eat something. You sit down before you pass out again. And you don’t attempt any more escape routes.”
I blink. “You—you knew I was?—”
“Trying the window? Yeah.” His voice is unbothered. “It’s louder than you think.”
My face heats. Of course it is.
He steps back just slightly, not fully withdrawing but giving me enough space to breathe.
His presence is… overwhelming. Up close, he’s even more dangerous-looking than I remembered from the basement. Broad shoulders stretching the seams of his shirt, tattoos disappearing beneath the fabric. His jaw is defined in that unfair “I could cut open a safe just by clenching” way. His eyes—dark, intense—don’t blink nearly enough.
He looks like someone who grew up being taught that people are either obstacles or assets. And I have a sinking suspicion he’s still deciding which one I am.
“So,” he says, voice low, smooth, too calm. “Tell me something.”
Oh god no.
My spine stiffens. “Tell you… what?”
“Something real.”
That sends a shiver up my back.
Before I can brace myself, he closes the distance again—not touching, but close enough that I feel the heat of him. He stands like someone used to taking up space, used to people stepping aside for him. His shoulders are broad beneath the fitted black shirt, tattoos creeping up the side of his neck and disappearing under the collar, the ink dark against his skin.
“What’s your story, Lena?”
“I don’t have one.”
“Everyone has one.”
“Well, mine’s boring.”
“You don’t look boring.”
My pulse jumps. I hate that it jumps.
He studies my face like he’s cataloging reactions, filing them away for later use. His attention is sharp, uncomfortably focused. It feels like he’s peeling back layers I haven’t given him permission to touch.
“What are you?” he asks next. “Twenty? Twenty-two?”
“Twenty-three,” I mutter.
“Hm.” His lips tug into something that’s not quite a smile. “Old enough to know better than to go out with a stranger who looks like a model.”
I bristle. “Wow. Thanks. Good to know I’m being judged by my kidnappers.”
He tilts his head. “So you admit he looked too good to be real.”
I ignore his question. “How did you know about what happened?” My old suspicions come back again. How would he know I went out with Ethan? Unless they already knew who he was.
