Claimed by My Mafia Alpha King

Irina’s POV

Pain dragged me back to consciousness.

Not the sharp kind. The dull, heavy kind that meant my body had given up on screaming and settled for a low, constant ache.

I tried to move. Couldn’t. My arms felt like lead weights.

Someone was dragging me.

Two someones, actually. Their hands gripped my upper arms, fingers digging into bruised flesh. My feet scraped against rough ground, toes catching on uneven stone.

"You’re awake." A woman’s voice. Flat. Bored.

I forced my eyes open. The world blurred—corridor walls, dim lighting, faces I didn’t recognize.

"Where—" My voice cracked. I tried again. "Where are you taking me?"

No answer.

The woman on my left—middle-aged, hard-faced—didn’t even glance down at me. The one on my right was younger, maybe twenty. She kept her eyes straight ahead.

They weren’t pack members. I would’ve recognized them. These were hired help. Mercenaries, probably. The kind who didn’t ask questions and didn’t care about the answers.

We turned a corner. Daylight hit my face, weak and gray through a window.

Morning, then. I’d been unconscious all night.

The rejection pain still burned through my chest like acid. My wolf—what was left of her—whimpered somewhere deep inside me. Broken. Dying.

Maybe already dead.

The thought should have hurt more than it did.

They hauled me down a flight of stairs. My shins banged against each step. I didn’t have the strength to lift my feet. Didn’t have the will to try.

My father stood near a rusted van, hands in his pockets. Casual. Like he was waiting for a delivery.

The women dragged me closer. My father’s eyes tracked our approach without a hint of recognition. No anger. No sadness. Nothing.

Just a man disposing of trash.

"Put her in," he said.

They hauled me toward the van’s open back doors. Inside, I could see shapes huddled against the walls. Other women. Four, maybe five of them.

All wearing the same expression—hollow. Empty. Already ghosts.

"Wait." My voice was barely a whisper, but my father heard it.

He stepped closer. Still didn’t look at my face.

"Please," I tried. "Please don’t—"

"Go accept your punishment, Irina."

His voice was so calm. So reasonable. Like he was sending me off to school.

The women shoved me forward. I hit the van floor hard, palms slamming into grimy metal. Someone grabbed the back of my dress and yanked me further inside.

The doors slammed shut.

Darkness swallowed us.

For a moment, no one moved. No one spoke. Just the sound of breathing—harsh and uneven—and the distant rumble of the van’s engine coming to life.

Then we lurched forward.

I stayed where I’d fallen, cheek pressed against cold metal that smelled like rust and vomit and despair. My body wouldn’t cooperate. Every muscle had gone slack, boneless with exhaustion and shock.

The van hit a pothole. I slid sideways, colliding with someone’s leg.

"Sorry," I whispered automatically.

No response.

I pushed myself up slowly, every movement sending fresh waves of pain through my ribs. Found a space against the wall and pressed my back to it.

In the dim light filtering through the van’s small windows, I could finally see the others clearly.

Five women. All around my age or younger. All wearing the same expression of numb acceptance.

None of them looked at me. None of them spoke.

We were all headed to the same place. The underground trading post. The place where unwanted omegas and rejected mates went to be sold.

Or worse—if no one bought you, you became permanent property of the house. A sex slave with no owner, no protection. Anyone could use you. Anyone could hurt you.

And no one would care.

The van rattled and swayed. Minutes bled into hours. Or maybe it was only minutes that felt like hours. Time had stopped making sense.

My mind drifted. Disconnected. Floating somewhere above my broken body.

I thought about Katerina. Wondered if she knew what happened to me. If she cared.

Probably not. She’d gotten out. Found her mate. Started a new life.

I was just the stepsister she left behind.

The van finally stopped.

For a heartbeat, no one moved.

Then the doors flew open.

Harsh fluorescent light flooded in, making me squint. Hands reached in—different hands this time, male and rough—and started pulling us out one by one.

When they grabbed me, I didn’t resist. Just let them haul me out and dump me on concrete.

The smell hit first. Mildew. Sweat. Something chemical and sharp that burned my nose.

We were in a basement. Low ceiling. Concrete walls lined with metal doors. Cells, I realized. Holding cells.

A man in a stained wife-beater stood near a desk, checking a clipboard. He barely glanced at us as we were herded past.

"Down the hall," he said. "Last door on the left."

They pushed us forward. My legs shook with every step, but somehow I stayed upright.

The last door opened into a larger room. More cells. These ones already occupied.

Women stared out at us through the bars. Some looked curious. Some looked dead inside.

All looked broken.

They separated us. Shoved each of us into different cells.

Mine was maybe six by eight feet. A metal cot bolted to the wall. A bucket in the corner that reeked of urine. Nothing else.

The door clanged shut behind me.

I stood there for a moment, swaying slightly, then my legs gave out completely.

I collapsed onto the cot. The thin mattress did nothing to cushion the impact of metal frame against my bruised body.

Didn’t matter.

Nothing mattered anymore.

Time passed. I didn’t track it. Just lay there, staring at the ceiling.

Somewhere down the hall, someone was crying. The sound echoed off concrete, distorted and horrible.

Eventually, footsteps approached.

A woman appeared outside my cell. Older. Severe-looking. She held a bucket and what looked like cleaning supplies.

"Up," she ordered.

I didn’t move.

She unlocked the cell and stepped inside. Set down the bucket with a clang that made me flinch.

"I said up. You need to be cleaned before the auction."

Auction.

Right.

I pushed myself into a sitting position. My arms shook with the effort.

The woman’s eyes raked over me—cataloging damage, calculating worth.

"You’re a mess," she said flatly. "But they’ll fix what they can."

She grabbed my arm and hauled me to my feet. My dress—the same filthy, torn white dress I’d been wearing since the forest—hung off me like a shroud.

"Strip," she ordered.

I just stared at her.

Her expression didn’t change. "Now. Or I’ll do it for you."

My hands moved before my brain caught up. Pulled the dress over my head. Let it fall to the floor.

I stood there in nothing but my underwear—stained and torn—while she examined me like livestock.

"Bruising’s bad," she muttered. "Ribs might be cracked. We’ll cover what we can with makeup."

She soaked a rag in the bucket and started scrubbing at my skin. The water was ice cold. I bit down on my tongue to keep from crying out as she worked over fresh wounds.

When she finished, my skin was raw and pink but clean.

She threw a dress at me. Simple. Black. Clean.

"Put it on. Someone will come get you when it’s time."

Then she was gone.

I stared at the black dress for a long moment. Then pulled it on.

It fit. Sort of. Hung loose in places where I used to have curves.

I sat back down on the cot.

Waited.

One by one, I heard them being taken. The other women from the van. Cell doors opening. Footsteps. Then silence.

Distant sounds filtered down—a man’s voice, amplified. Numbers being called. Applause or jeers, I couldn’t tell which.

Each time a door opened, my heart rate spiked. But they kept passing my cell.

Time crawled.

The sounds faded. The hallway went quiet.

And still, no one came for me.

Hours passed. Or minutes. I’d lost the ability to tell.

Finally, I was alone. The only one left in the cells.

My breathing came shallow and fast. Panic clawed at my chest, but I couldn’t name what I was panicking about.

Being sold? Or not being sold?

Both options led to the same hell.

Footsteps echoed down the hall.

I looked up.

A man appeared outside my cell. Tall. Broad-shouldered. His face was hidden in shadow.

"Irina." He read the name off a clipboard.

My name had never sounded so much like a death sentence.

Two guards appeared behind him. They unlocked the cell and stepped inside.

I stood on instinct. My legs trembled but held.

They each grabbed an arm and hauled me forward.

We made it three steps toward the door.

Then the man stopped.

"Wait."

The guards froze.

"There’s someone outside," the man said slowly, eyes scanning his clipboard like he was double-checking something impossible. "Asking to see her specifically."