Alpha Asher | Completed ✔️

Chapter Twenty Eight

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Word Count: 1760

~Alaya

I woke as if I had been sleeping for twelve hours sleep. Refreshed and content.

My body has silken sheets draped over it, as I lay comfortably in bed. As my eyes flutter open, I notice absolutely nothing familiar about the room. Then everything comes back to me like a slap in the face.

My last memories lay in the eyes of Cyprian, the stranger. He had convinced me he knew Sinful, which may still be true, since apparently they are both as sinister as each other. He kidnapped me. He wrapped his hands around my neck. He had given me a look that should be reserved for some of most wicked people on this earth.

Now I'm here, in a fully furnished room that is nicer than my one back home. It's even nicer than my one back in Sinful's territory. And that's saying something...

When I look down, I'm wearing the same clothes as I was when I was taken. The sight of its more of a relief than I could believe. Now that that has been established, I need to find out where I am. The window to my right has curtains drawn over it. On the other side of those pieces of fabric are the answer to where I have been taken. I rush over, throwing them open.

The Desire Pack. I'm home.

This place is on a hill, casting a glance out over everything. It's so familiar; the lights, the city, everything. I've missed this so much, that I press my hands against the glass, willing the locked window to smash and let me out. I take a moment to think about where in the Desire Pack I am. Somewhere achingly familiar. Asher's estate. Or his old estate rather.

This means one thing. I'm with Shanae, the crazy lady who shoved me over the side of the railing. Or at least, she's here somewhere, along with that Cyprian man.

As my gaze flickers back across the room, I notice something on the side table of the bed that I must have missed earlier. A note.

It read:

Dearest Alaya, join me for dinner?

There was no name at the bottom to signify who had written the note, although a dark feeling in the pit of my stomach already gives me an idea of who will be at that dinner. It seems though, no matter how desperately I want to refuse, I have no other choice.

I twist the note over, out of sheer habit to see more has been written.

If you wish to freshen up a little, there's a dress in the bathroom.

Glancing up, I notice a door slightly ajar. I assume that's the bathroom. So I lay the note on the bed, and walk toward it. I don't know how comfortable I feel wearing something they have given me, but yet again, an unknown consequence seems a lot more daunting than a single dress.

It's not ugly, at least. It's light and devoid from any extra trimming or sparkle. It's simple, which I have a feeling is in complete contrast to what is going to happen next.