Chapter 3
Chapter Three
Saylor
B eing left in a bare room with only an interrogation desk—that my hands are handcuffed to—is not the highlight of my year.
Time ticks away so slowly that I have what feels like hours to think through all the mistakes I’ve made.
Resting my head against the edge of the cool table, I wonder if my dad has received a ransom call yet.
If nothing else, my team will have noticed I’m missing.
Shadow Security will have dispatched multiple teams to the Netherlands, but I have no way of knowing where they took me during the car and plane rides that I have vague memories of.
A shiver runs down my spine, and not from the frigid temperature in the small room. Being unconscious while around strangers is the most unsettling part.
Now that I’m not so foggy and confused, my brain obsesses about who changed my clothing. I squirm around in the uncomfortable chair, trying to determine if I’m sore.
If they sexually assaulted me, I’d be able to tell, right?
The thought makes my stomach churn as tears burn in my eyes.
I’ve been so stupid, it’s hard to fathom.
I’m lucky to have security, but I’ve complained about them nonstop, even gone so far as to purposely lie about what I planned to do just to get a break.
Having two military-trained alphas constantly following me around has not done wonders for my dating life.
I just wanted a chance to live like a normal person for one night.
That backfired so epically…
I don’t even fight the tears that fall.
Once my mom died, I lost all attachment to religion, but I struggle against the handcuffs, lay my head on the table, and pray.
* * *
I’ve been trapped in here for so long that I’ve gone through all the stages of grief, then circled back to start all over again.
The silence of the empty room was killing me, but those thoughts disappear as two men come into the room and sit across from me at the table.
My bladder is somehow full again, even without being offered any fluids, and I’m dangerously close to having an accident. Not just because the looks on their faces are terrifying, either. There are limits to how much the human body can handle, and I’m one jump scare away from sitting in a puddle.
They speak amongst themselves in the same language as the man who brought me to this room.
Now that I’m a little more coherent, I think it might be German.
Possibly.
I’m really regretting only taking Spanish in high school. Clearly, I should have taken every language available at my private school, and there were quite a few options.
“If it’s money you want, my father will pay you,” I say, clearing my scratchy throat. “I have a phone number you can call.”
The man on the right has a puckered scar that cuts across his cheek and dips into his upper lip. He sneers, saying something to the other man while nodding at me.
If I survive this mess, I’ll never try to get away from my security team again.
Hell, I’ll wake them up when I want to run to the cafeteria across campus.
I won’t push back against any of their rules, and maybe I’ll even consider what my dad said and find a pack to bond.
Okay, so he wanted me to find an alpha, since he and my mom were more traditional, but I’ve always dreamed of having a loving pack of alphas to dote on and protect me.
“Do you think we care about a payday?” He laughs, a cold, dead sound spilling from his lips.
The other guy flips open a file folder, shoving pictures at me. “You have a choice to make. We tested your pheromones and blood. The results say you’re a possible match to several inmates at our facility.”
“What?” I whisper, blinking rapidly. My heart pounds so erratically that it’s hard to be sure I heard him correctly. “What does that even mean?”
I’m an American citizen. The laws of my country say I have free will to choose my pack and bond as I see fit.
“Look through the options, sniff the cards, and select who you want to be placed with,” the first man says, pointing at the stack of pictures and other papers. “You make the choice, or we will make it for you.”
I keep my eyes on his, purposely avoiding whatever is in that folder. “My name is Saylor Callahan. My father is Senator Logan Callahan out of Vermont in the United States. I have a phone number for you to call to discuss a ransom amount. You don’t have to do this.”
Dammit.
I don’t even know what this is!
The first man shoves his chair back and lands a stinging slap to my face. My head whips to the side, and my arms instinctively try to move to cradle my cheek. Only, the cuffs prevent that, digging into my wrists painfully.
I sob, shaking my head. “Multiple millions—that’s what you can ask for. My family will pay.”
My hair falls over my face, and I blink repeatedly.
It doesn’t help.
My vision stays fuzzy.
“You keep going on about money,” the man growls, snatching a handful of hair at my temple. “I’m bored of it.”
“I-I’m an A-American citizen. I have rights,” I hiss, struggling against his hold.
Fire radiates in my skull and cheek, making it difficult to focus.
His rancid breath fans over my skin as he snarls close to my face. He goes on in that language I can’t understand and tears leak from my eyes.
I’m in hell.
There’s no other explanation and no way I’m going to survive this.
I’ll never get to see my family again.
Never get to experience what it feels like to be loved.
I’m going to die in this place, and that very well might be the most merciful option. Women always have to be concerned about men using their size against us.
The door to the room slams open, and I jolt in my seat as the man with the scar releases me. The other guy shoves his chair back and stands.
“Collins specifically said she was to be unharmed,” the man behind me says in a crisp British accent.
“Like they aren’t going to tear her apart as soon as she’s released into A block.” The guy with the scar scoffs. “Even if one of her scent matches comes to her rescue… This is not saying much.”
A shiver runs down my spine.
What the fuck is happening?
* * *
The new guy undoes my cuffs and drags me from the room with a hand around my wrist. We make it into the hallway, and he continues to guide me through a mass of corridors. At least he’s not violent like the first man, but his strides are long, and I’m still weak.
“I don’t know what’s going on, but please let me give you the phone number to call about ransom,” I say, keeping my voice low. “They’ll want to keep it out of the press. You can be rich beyond your wildest dreams if you just listen to me.”
The man stops dead in his tracks and sighs. At first, I think he’s actually going to listen to me, but he nods at a door a few feet away. “Go on in. The doctor is waiting for you.”
“I’m American. I was kidnapped from outside the hotel I was staying at in Amsterdam. My father is a senator. Please?—”
“I can’t help you. The best thing you can do is go in there and be polite.” His jaw clenches, and he shakes his head.
All of the things I was taught to do during a kidnapping don’t seem to apply here. None of them are wearing masks, which means they never expect me to make it back to my old life. If I did, I could identify them.
Leo used to tell me that if I was taken, and I saw one of the kidnappers without a mask, to never let them know I’d seen them. To keep my gaze averted and to even close my eyes if need be. This situation is nothing like what I was prepped for, and I think this is actually more dangerous than if they had kidnapped me for money.
“I don’t know what’s happening,” I say, trying to catch his eyes. Maybe if I can humanize myself, he’ll feel compelled to help. “Please, you can verify my story. Do a quick internet search of Saylor Callahan. My father is Senator Logan Callahan, and he will pay you.”
I feel like a broken record, but the goal is to keep trying until I can find someone to tempt with a massive payday.
“Head in that room. The doctor is waiting.” He opens the door and nods for me to go inside.
I woke up on an exam table.
Didn’t I already see a doctor?
The man grabs my arm and shoves me into the room.
A woman with a brown bob stands next to another exam table, but she’s the first female I’ve seen, and that instantly makes her seem like less of a risk.
She gives a tight smile, nodding to the bed. “Have a seat,” she says in a thick accent that I can’t place.
My stomach flip-flops.
She works here.
Man or woman, it doesn’t matter.
She’s not on my side.
I still don’t have the first idea what’s happening, and my brain can’t come up with any scenarios that make sense.
I dart a look at the door, but the man crosses his arms, making it clear I won’t be able to get past him.
Every cell in my body screams to run, but logic tells me I won’t be able to get away. If I piss them off, they could turn violent like the man in the interrogation room.
My head throbs, and my entire body aches. “I need a bathroom.”
“Don’t worry about that,” the woman in the lab coat says. “Get on the table.”
Mentally weighing my chances of being able to make it past the man versus only making them angrier leads me to follow her instruction.
My feet hang over the edge of the bed, and I flex my toes. I’ve been cold for so long, it feels like all my appendages are numb. Or it could be remnants of whatever drugs they gave me.
“Have you heard the term rabid before?” the woman asks.
My shoulders bounce. “I’ve heard it jokingly to describe alphas who are feral.”
“It’s not a joke,” she says, digging in the drawers behind her. “Feral alphas who are in close proximity to omega pheromones regain cognitive awareness fairly quickly. When an alpha ignores their biological needs for long enough, they pass feral and enter rabid territory. This is marked by a significant decline in mental clarity. They exhibit hyper aggression, have violent outbursts, and as it progresses, they fail to recognize even those closest to them.”
Every word she says seems to make my blood pump faster through my veins as fear floods my system. As an omega, my flight-or-fight response is always firmly geared toward flight, and I struggle to keep my ass planted on the exam table.
The man who brought me to the room still blocks the doorway, watching like he’s prepared to tackle me at a moment’s notice.
“Once an alpha goes rabid, there’s only one thing that brings them back.” The woman—a doctor, apparently—comes to my side, but I refuse to look at her.
Why is she even telling me this?
Those men said I was a match for several of the inmates, and it finally clicks.
My hands fall to the table to push myself up, but something jabs into my neck. Warmth floods the area around the injection site as the man strides over.
My entire body gets heavy, and he lays me back against the table that’s propped up at an angle. My eyes meet his, and he looks almost remorseful, but I don’t care if he feels guilty.
He should.
In school, we learned all about the ugly history of omega trafficking. A few hundred years ago, omegas had almost no say over their lives or who they ended up with.
There weren’t even laws against kidnapping omegas until something ridiculously late, like 1923 or 1925. Basically, an alpha could steal an omega and just wait it out until they went into heat.
Once the fog sets in, omegas beg mindlessly for knots and bites, but it’s an impulse of our designation and not actual consent. Society eventually caught up to the realization that everyone should have autonomy, and the laws changed.
The injection site burns, but the rest of me feels warm and floaty. Even my anxiety has toned down several notches, which is not normal.
“That should help you stay calm while we go over everything we need to discuss,” the woman says. “Do you understand?”
“Yes.” I hear myself respond, even though I didn’t tell my brain to speak.
“Good.” She hums. “You have a birth control implant; when was that placed?”
“Less than a year ago. It was time to swap out my first implant, and they did it during my yearly checkup.”
“Have you ever been pregnant? Include any miscarriages or abortions.” She turns back to me with a clipboard in her hand.
“No. Never.”
“When was your last heat?”
I really do not like where this line of questioning is going.
In fact, I hate everything since I woke up in this place. No matter how hard I fight to keep from responding, I still hear myself answer.
“I was seventeen when my first heat started. The doctors stopped it. I’ve been on suppressants since.” Tears sting my eyes.
This is none of their business. And it feels a lot like my body is betraying me because I have no way of refusing to answer her intrusive questions.
“That would be what I was seeing in your lab work. We don’t run across that often.” She hums and taps her pen against the clipboard. “It’s no matter. I’m going to begin to flush them from your system. It’s about a twelve-hour process.”
My entire body goes rigid, and I shake my head. “No! I can’t go through that kind of pain again.”
She has the audacity to pat my leg placatingly. “You won’t have to. We have plenty of alphas who will be more than happy to meet your physical needs.”
There’s no way this is real life.
I’m trapped in the worst nightmare my brain has ever conjured, but there has to be some way to wake up.