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“Fucking give me the list,” I snap.
Biting her lipstick until it stains her teeth, Marie grudgingly offers her phone. “Just a peek. Please don’t tell him I let you see.”
“I’ll take it to the grave.” Probably a few hours from now.
The list is short. Only four packs, but they’re a who’s who of gangland alphas Bridget would cream herself to apprehend.
Scanning their names and photos, I already need paper-bag oxygen.
Then I catch the heading I skipped.
Confirmed Guest List
Redfang Heiress Auction
No way.
Noshitfuckingway.
I try to swallow the panic, but my soul squeaks out of my body with the ominous whine of a soon-to-explode airship.
I was told tonight was a party.
No one mentioned I was the favor.
While I silently spin out, Marie snatches her phone. “Your limo is waiting. I’ll tell you more about the alphas on the way.”
Following her from the penthouse at the head of a column of way too many Redfang soldiers to take down in a single swoop, I fumble under my robe, desperately shooting a no-look text to mission control.
When’s the intercept?
I climb in the limo, waiting for my phone to buzz.
I ride to the venue, waiting for my phone to buzz.
I listen to Marie gush over the rich underworld alphas who’re dying to “adore” me, trying not to pass out and forever waiting for my phone to buzz.
Silence.
The only buzz is the one in my brain, screaming that I’m up shit creek with a paper straw for a paddle.
I’ll die before I let myself feel the heat of another alpha’s sewer-scented breath.
No.
Even better.
They’ll die.
Screw earning my freedom.
I’m gonna run for it.
Four cars escort us to an uptown mansion where the gardens say historical drama, the security says mob thriller, and the scream buried behind my collarbone says raunchy teen horror flick.
Guess who’s playing the virgin sacrifice?
Maybe I can escape on a technicality.
