My Father Sold Me to a bunch of Crazy Alphas

I grabbed the unconscious omega off the floor and I jumped.

I know what you are thinking: jumping from the third floor? No way I survived that.

You would be right, of course, if the neighbor’s balcony didn’t have laundry hanging out to air on a thick rope.

Pure luck.

Until I looked down. Ten black vans full of people armed up to the teeth are entering the building.

Damian was completely out—head slumped against my shoulder, curls sticking to the sweat on my neck. His face looked unnervingly peaceful, which somehow made it worse. His skin, always pale, had taken on that too-still quality, like the life in him had just stepped out for a moment and hadn’t quite decided whether to return.

I had one arm wrapped tight around him, keeping his limp body from slipping. The other gripped the rope, my fingers screaming. The burn had started minutes ago, but now it was numb—just pressure and instinct, my hand fused to the line like letting go wasn’t even an option.

I couldn’t see the men anymore, not from here, but I knew they were almost beneath us. I could feel it. The sound of boots on concrete, the low murmur of voices. Relaxed. Confident.

They didn’t know we were above them. Not yet.

The rope shifted with the wind. Not much, just a sway, but enough to make my stomach drop. I tightened my grip around Damian. He didn’t stir. His lips were parted slightly, soft with unconscious breath, and his lashes fluttered once like he might wake—but didn’t.

There was blood on his temple. More down his neck, soaking into that ridiculous pink satin robe he’d refused to change out of. It felt like holding a ghost.

My arms were shaking now. Muscles locking up, grip failing one finger at a time. The skin on my palm was starting to split open. I couldn’t wipe my face, couldn’t blink away the sweat burning into my eyes. All I could do was hold on.