My Unhinged Alphas

Prologue Lena

I wake up cold.

Not chilly. Not underdressed-for-the-weather cold. This is concrete-seeping-through-skin cold. The kind that feels permanent.

My head feels stuffed with cotton. Thick. Pressurized. Like I’m trying to think through water. When I try to lift my chin, the room tilts behind some kind of blindfold and nausea rolls through me.

My hands are behind my back. I try to move, just a little, and rough fibers scrape against my skin. Rope. Thick rope. It bites when I flex.

Okay.

So, I’m cold. Bound. And concussed.

I stop moving.

Fabric covers my eyes. It presses against my lashes and smells faintly of dust and sweat. Underneath that is another scent, heavier and unmistakable. Metal. Copper.

Blood.

I swallow carefully, trying not to breathe too deeply through my nose. The metallic tang coats the back of my throat, as if I’ve been chewing on pennies.

Okay, so this is happening.

My ankles are bound as well. The chair beneath me is solid, probably wood or metal. My shoulders already ache from being forced back.

Do not panic.

Panic will not help.

I take a slow breath and try to think. Where am I?

The air feels damp. Heavy. It smells like old stone and something coppery and wrong. A basement maybe. Or a storage space. Somewhere no one decorates.

How did I get here? What do I remember?

Dinner. A restaurant that was a little too polished, a little too expensive for someone like me. Soft lighting. A glass placed in front of me by a man with a smile that felt practiced.

“You can trust me.”

That’s usually the sentence that should send you running.

After that, everything becomes blurred. The memory feels smeared, like someone dragged their thumb across wet paint. I remember warmth in my limbs. I remember laughter that might have been mine. Then nothing.

Voices cut through the darkness. Male. Close.

“You weren’t supposed to kill him.”

“I didn’t.”

There’s a pause.

“He stopped breathing. That’s not the same thing.”

A wet dragging sound follows, something heavy scraping across concrete. My stomach flips hard enough that I almost gag.

That was not a mop.

Another voice speaks. Calm. Precise. Controlled. “Focus. There’s another body downstairs.”

Body.

My pulse stutters and then pounds violently in my chest. I concentrate on keeping my breathing even. Bodies mean dead. Dead means danger.

There’s the soft, clean sound of metal slicing through air, followed by another dragging sound across the floor. Wet. Heavy.

My stomach flips. That is not a good sound.

Another voice speaks. Lower. Controlled. “Focus. We’re not done.”

Not done. Great.

I breathe in through my nose and regret it immediately. The metallic smell is stronger now. Thicker.

There’s a soft clink, like metal tapping metal, then another slice through air.

“Oh relax,” someone says. Amused. Casual. “It’s not her blood.”

Her. That would be me.

Good to know I’m part of the conversation.

Boots step closer. The rhythm is unhurried. Whoever it is, they don’t seem concerned about me escaping. Which is fair. I am tied to a chair.

I lift my chin beneath the blindfold. “Hi,” I say. My voice sounds thinner than I want it to. “If you’re not planning to murder me, this is a very dramatic way to say hello.”

Silence. Then?—

A laugh. Low. Warm. Entirely inappropriate.

“Well,” that amused voice says, closer now. “She’s awake.”

Another voice, sharper. “Untie her.”

“Why? She’s adorable like this.”

Excuse me?

The air shifts as someone steps right in front of me. I can feel him there. Heat. Presence. The faint smell of gunpowder under soap.

That laugh again. “She hasn’t even screamed yet. I’m impressed.”

I swallow. You can scream later, I tell myself. Right now, information is more useful.

Hands grab the blindfold and I brace. The cloth is ripped away and light stabs my eyes. I blink hard, vision swimming, and shapes begin to form.

Concrete walls. Blood smeared across the floor. A man slumped against a metal table, head at an angle that no living person’s head should be.

And three men standing in front of me.

They’re dressed in black. Gloves. Masks that conceal everything but their eyes.

One of them is cleaning a blade with methodical care, as if he has just finished a chore and intends to leave no trace of it.

Another stands rigidly upright. His posture is military straight, his gaze fixed and assessing.

The third has blond hair visible at the edges of his mask.

He’s not moving. He’s simply watching me.

I blink again. They’re still there.

“Great.” I sigh softly. “My brain couldn’t even spring for shirtless firefighters. It went straight to murder cosplay.”

None of them look surprised to see me conscious.

“Where am I?” I ask. My voice sounds steadier than I feel. Gold star for denial.

“Somewhere temporary,” the calm one says.

“Wow. Love that. Very Airbnb.”

What the hell do you think you’re doing, Lena.

But it’s like my brain is on autopilot. It’s not every day you find yourself tied to a chair, talking to three masked murderers, with a dead body just a few feet away.

Biles rises up my throat as I finally realize what the smell is. It’s a dead man. I’m literally smelling a very dead person.

The one with the blade tilts his head at me. “You’re in a basement,” he clarifies helpfully. He’s the amused one. “But we weren’t here for you.”

Oh. Great.

“So this is like… a wrong place, wrong time situation?” I ask. “Because I’d love to opt out.”

The calm one steps closer. His presence fills the space without raising his voice. “We’re not going to hurt you.”

Behind him, the amused one adds, “Unless you make this complicated.”

I blink. “Define complicated.”

The blond one shifts. He’s staring at me like he’s trying to figure out if I’m real.

His eyes are blue. Devastatingly blue. That seems unfair.

“What did you do to me?” I ask.

The calm one crouches slightly so we’re eye level. “We didn’t do anything. You were drugged,” he says. “You were taken. But it’s okay, the men who did it are dead.” He delivers the news like he’s telling me the weather report.

My brain stutters.

Drugged. Taken. Dead.

That explains… nothing.

“I didn’t order that,” I say faintly.

The amused one snorts. “Good. I’d hate to think you orchestrated this just to meet us.”

My pulse spikes.

Meet us.

Oh. So they’re… together.

Fantastic. A murder trio.

That feels statistically rare. And I’m stuck here with them. Sounds about right.

I blink at the three masked men and swallow. “If you’re not planning to rob a bank, you guys are seriously overcommitted to the drama. What’s with the masks?”

The amused one huffs out a laugh. “She’s funny.”

“Answer her,” the tall, calm one says quietly.

“No,” the amused one replies. “Mystery is half the brand.”

The blond doesn’t laugh. His eyes narrow slightly, studying me like I’m a problem he hasn’t decided how to solve.

I clear my throat. “Okay. Cool. Brand awareness. Love that for you. But if this is the part where I’m supposed to be terrified, you might want to introduce yourselves first. Feels rude otherwise.”

“Terrified is implied,” the amused one says.

“Names are unnecessary,” the controlled one adds.

“Unnecessary for you,” I say quickly. “For me, they’re kind of helpful. Hard to process impending doom without proper nouns.”

The blade flashes briefly in the amused one’s hand as he gestures toward the body on the floor. “You don’t need our names. You need to answer questions.”

“Great,” I say, forcing my voice steady. “Love questions. Big fan. Just—before we do that. Am I collateral damage here or part of the main event? Because that changes how cooperative I feel like being.”

A pause.

The controlled one shifts his weight. “You weren’t the target.”

Relief flickers through me, thin and fragile. “So this is what? Administrative error?” I press. “Wrong room? Wrong girl?”

The blond finally speaks. “You were taken by men who won’t be taking anyone again.” His voice is low. Not unkind. Just certain.

“That’s… concerningly vague,” I reply. “Taken why?”

Silence.

The amused one tilts his head. “You don’t know?”

“If I did, I wouldn’t be asking,” I snap, then soften it with a shaky breath. “Look, I’m just a barista. I make coffee. I complain about student loans. That’s the extent of my criminal empire.”

The controlled one watches me closely. “You don’t have family?”

The question hits harder than it should.

“No,” I say. “Not that I’m aware of. Why?”

Another look passes between them. Subtle. Fast. But I see it.

Interesting.

“Don’t expect any ransom, no one’s coming to save me.” No one cares, but I don’t add that part. I can’t have them thinking no one would be looking for me if they decide to do something to me.

“Relax, you’re safe,” the blond one replies.

“So,” I continue quickly, “if I’m not the target, and you’re not the kidnappers, and you’ve already—” I glance at the body and swallow. “Handled that situation… then what happens to me?”

The amused one steps closer, crouching slightly. His mask hides everything but the curve of his mouth beneath it. “That depends,” he says lightly. “On whether you’re a problem.”

“Define problem,” I whisper.

“Someone who talks,” the controlled one says.

“I talk for tips,” I reply automatically. “Context matters.”

“You know most people would be screaming their lungs out by now,” he tells me.

I lift my chin. “Most people probably don’t want to die looking hysterical.”

Another beat of silence.

I sigh. “If there was even a sliver of possibility anybody could hear us, we wouldn’t be having this casual conversation.”

“Smart girl,” he says, giving me a toothy smile.

Diabolical is all I can think. He’s really enjoying this.

The amused one laughs again, softer this time. “I like her.”

“That’s not relevant,” the controlled one says.

“Everything’s relevant.”

I force myself to keep going even as my vision blurs. Something is wrong. I can already feel it creeping in. But I feel helpless. There’s nothing I can do but keep them talking. Keep them human. Find out everything I can so I can get out of this, hopefully alive.

“So, what do I call you?” I ask. “Because ‘tall and ominous,’ ‘stabby and cheerful,’ and ‘intense eye contact’ is a mouthful.”

The amused one grins beneath the mask. I can hear it in his voice. “Careful.”

“Why?” I shoot back. “You’re the ones in masks.”

For a second, something almost shifts in the air. Like I’ve nudged something I don’t understand.

There’s another crash somewhere above us. A distant shout. My pulse spikes.

The blond one moves closer. Too close. I feel the heat of him even without him touching me. “You don’t belong here,” he says quietly.

I let out a shaky breath. “I’m getting that impression.”

The room tilts slightly. Fuck. My chest starts to cave in.

Not now.

Stay awake.

The controlled one half reaches for me like he might steady me, then stops. Like touching me would cross some line.

“Can we keep her?” the amused one asks casually.

“No,” the controlled one answers immediately.

The blond’s jaw tightens.

My vision starts to blur at the edges again. My body feels heavy. Whatever they used on me hasn’t finished its job. Maybe they can tell I’m about to go under. Maybe they were expecting it already, and let me talk.

I shoot them an accusing look, feeling betrayed by my own body. I thought I was in control, that I could get out of this by keeping them talking. That’s what happens in the movies, right? That’s how you get the bad guys to confess.

The controlled one straightens. “We’re leaving.”

My pulse jumps. “Leaving where?”

“With you.”

The room tilts slightly again, the lingering drug making everything feel distant at the edges. “Okay,” I say carefully. “That feels like a detail I’d like expanded.”

The blond steps closer, just enough that I feel his shadow fall over me. “You’re safer with us,” he says.

I look at the blood on the floor. “That’s a bold claim,” I murmur.

I try to hold on. I need answers. I need to understand what wrong room I ended up in and who these masked men are and why they sound like violence is just part of their schedule.

But the darkness pushes in.

The last thing I hear before I lose it again is a laugh from behind a mask.