A door opens and closes somewhere nearby. More footsteps. Then hands on me again, but different this time, less rough, more hesitant. The bag is pulled from my head in one swift motion, and I gasp against the gag, blinking rapidly against the sudden light.
It’s not bright, but after the complete darkness of the bag, it’s blinding. I squeeze my eyes shut, then slowly open them again, trying to adjust. Everything is a blur of shapes and shadows.
I feel hands at my wrists, tugging at the zip ties. There’s a snipping sound, and suddenly my hands are free. The blood rushes back into my fingers, bringing with it a burning sensation that makes me wince. The same hands move to my ankles, and then those bonds are gone too.
Finally, gentle fingers work at the cloth in my mouth, pulling it free. I cough and gasp, sweet air filling my lungs properly for the first time in what feels like hours.
“There we go,” the pleasant voice says. “That’s better, isn’t it? Help her into the chair.”
Hands under my arms lift me up, guiding me to a metal folding chair. My legs are wobbly, half-numb from being bound,and I collapse into the seat more than sit. I blink rapidly, my vision slowly clearing as my eyes adjust to the light.
I rub my wrists, trying to restore circulation, and take in my surroundings through watering eyes. I’m in some kind of warehouse or large garage. Concrete floors, high ceilings with exposed metal beams, no windows that I can see. The space is scattered with motorcycles, workbenches, and various pieces of furniture that look like they were salvaged from a dozen different yard sales.
Men in leather cuts lounge around the space in small clusters, some watching me with open curiosity, others pretending not to be interested. I count at least twelve of them.
Two men stand directly in front of me. The one closest to me is unremarkable; just another biker with a shaved head, tattoos creeping up his neck and a completely forgettable face that’s mostly hidden by a scraggly beard. The other man, however…
I stare, unable to help myself. He’s beautiful. That’s the only word I can think of to describe him. He’s tall, easily six-two or six-three, with a lean, muscular build that his black t-shirt and jeans do nothing to hide. His hair is golden blond and falls in soft waves to his collar. But it’s his eyes that make my breath catch; they’re an eerie golden green, like a cat’s eyes caught in sunlight. They’re beautiful and terrifying all at once.
Unlike most bikers, his face is clean-shaven, showcasing features that wouldn’t be out of place on a classical statue: high cheekbones, a strong jaw, a perfectly proportioned nose. The only flaw in this otherwise perfect face is a vivid scar that slashes down the right side, from his temple across his cheek, ending just above his lip. The scar somehow makes him more striking rather than less.
He walks toward me, and I tense, bracing myself for… I don’t know what. But all he does is extend a bottle of water toward me.
“Drink,” he says, and I recognize the pleasant voice from earlier.
My hands are shaking so badly I nearly drop the bottle as I take it. I unscrew the cap and gulp greedily, the cool water heaven on my parched throat. I should probably be worried about being drugged, but my mouth is too dry to care.
The man watches me with those unnerving eyes, his head tilted slightly to one side. There’s something almost clinical in his gaze, as if I’m a specimen he’s studying. But there’s also a flicker of amusement there, which somehow frightens me more than outright menace would.
I lower the bottle, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. The silence stretches between us like a taut wire. I know I should stay quiet, not antagonize these people, but the question burns in my throat until I can’t contain it anymore.
“Who are you?” My voice comes out as a raspy whisper.
His eyes never leave my face as he studies me, taking in the bruises forming on my wrists, the dirt on my dress, the tear tracks I’m sure are visible on my cheeks.
“You can call me Kit,” he answers almost absently, still cataloging my injuries.
I swallow hard. “Why am I here?”
He doesn’t answer. Instead, he turns to the man who untied me, and his expression hardens slightly.
“I specifically ordered you to bring her back unharmed.” His voice is still pleasant, but there’s an edge to it now, sharp as a razor.
Moose doesn’t look particularly concerned. He shrugs his massive shoulders. “She’s alive, isn’t she? Stop bitching.”
Kit’s eyes narrow, and though his expression barely changes, something in the air shifts. The temperature in the room drops several degrees.
Moose seems to realize that he made a mistake because he quickly says in a much less dismissive tone, “Look at it this way prez, If Viper thinks we’re roughing her up a bit, it’ll scare him, right? He’ll get reckless, do something stupid.”
Kit still doesn’t say anything, just studies Moose for a minute. The whole room seems to hold its breath. Then Kit smiles and says, “Clever, Moose, very clever. I was starting to wonder if you had any brains at all in that boulder you call a head. Next time you mouth off to me, maybe we’ll crack it open and see.”
With that, Kit turns back towards me, and I fight the urge to shrink away from those unsettling eyes. Behind him, I can see Moose let out a small breath and the tense line of his shoulders relax slightly.
Kit opens his mouth, but before he can say anything, another voice cuts in from behind me. “We’re just going to kill her anyway, so why are we wasting time?”
I jerk around in my seat, nearly falling off it in my haste to see who’s speaking. A young man steps out of the shadows and moves to stand next to Kit. For a disorienting second, I think it’s Kit again. This man is younger, I doubt he’s even reached twenty, with a lean, wiry build. He has the same eerie golden-green eyes and sharp jawline as Kit. But where Kit’s hair is golden blonde, his hair is jet black. And where Kit seems relaxed, almost amused, this boy radiates fury. It rolls off him in waves, turning the air around him electric.
Kit sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. “Why would I have gone to the trouble of bringing her here if I was just going to kill her? That’s poor planning, and you know I hate poor planning.”