My Father Sold Me to a bunch of Crazy Alphas

I’ve been kidnapped.

There’s a sharp ringing in my ears and something wet trickling down my neck.

Blood, maybe.

Or sweat.

Hard to tell when your head’s pounding like a war drum and your body folded like an underfed gymnast at the Olympics.

I think I’m in a trunk.

A moving one.

The hum of tires, the bass of some awful music, and the occasional grunt from up front confirm that much.

My mouth tastes like metal and dirt.

My wrists are bound. Cheap rope, maybe zip ties. My fingers? Dead. Like overstuffed hotdogs.

And somehow, through the fog in my head, all I can think is:Dad’s going to be pissed.

Not because I’ve been kidnapped.