My Father Sold Me to a bunch of Crazy Alphas

Who would’ve thought the evening news report would be the thing to drag me out of a coma?

I’ve been unconscious for half a week.

Far too long.

Everything hurts. My skull pulses like it’s been split open and stitched shut with fire. My lips are cracked, my throat dry like I’ve been breathing sand.

I can barely crack my eyes open—just slits of light stabbing through swollen lids. My chest won’t rise all the way when I try to breathe.

The last thing I remember is stabbing Emiliano.

At his order.

Then the screaming, the fists, the silence.

I know him. That psychopath wouldn’t waste the opportunity. He probably turned my body into a stage prop—just another chess piece in his mind games.

I try to move. Can’t.

There’s someone in the room with me. A man. He’s got his phone out, watching something.

I hear it in the distance. The news anchor’s voice, sterile and too cheerful.