I don’t answer, instead turning to look at the wall again. He saw the security footage this morning, just as I did. I’d only beenleft alone for a few hours last night before being shaken awake by one of Kit’s men. I was taken to another room, and shoved into a chair. In front of me was a table with several open laptops. Wrath sat in a chair in front of them, his face alight with a cruel sort of glee. Kit stood on the other side of the table, leaning against a wall, arms folded, face impassive.
“Time for some entertainment,” Wrath had said, fingers flying across a keyboard. “Little present from me to you.”
The screens had flickered to life, showing grainy security camera footage of the Devil’s Rejects clubhouse. My breath caught in my throat at the sight of Roman entering what looked like an office. I’d leaned forward instinctively, hungry for the sight of him despite everything. He looked exhausted, his eyes shadowed, jaw tight with tension.
The quality wasn’t great, slightly grainy with occasional static, and the audio kept cutting in and out. But it was enough for me to get the picture. Naomi’s frustration with Roman and Atlas, she didn’t feel they were being aggressive enough in looking for someone called Demon for her. And then the moment that will remain seared into my brain for the rest of my life. Naomi calling me “plant lady”. Roman, instead of defending me, all but told her she was more important to him than I am. A few minutes later, Roman leaves the office. Naomi follows, both of them heading towards the stairs that lead to the clubhouse bedrooms.
I’d stopped watching after that, turning away as Wrath laughed at my obvious pain.
Now, sitting across from Kit, I feel hollowed out. Empty. Like everything that made me Kayla has been scooped from my body, leaving just a shell.
“Well, this is boring,” Kit mutters, pulling me back to the present. He gestures around at the grim faces watching us. “You’d think we were at a funeral.”
Something inside me snaps. The fear, the heartbreak, the absolute absurdity of this entire situation crashes over me in a wave.
“I’m sorry I’m not more entertaining,” I spit, the words tumbling out before I can stop them. “Hopefully, your next kidnapping victim won’t be such a disappointment.”
The warehouse falls silent. Every eye turns toward us. Even the men playing cards freeze, cards suspended mid-deal. Kit just stares at me without expression, and I feel the blood drain from my face. What have I done? I brace myself, regretting having opened my mouth.
Then Kit grins, his whole face lighting up with delight. “That’s more like it!” he laughs, the sound echoing off the concrete walls. He spins his chair around and straddles it, folding his arms along the back and resting his chin on them as he faces me. “Go on, yell at me some more. Tell me what an absolute bastard I am for dragging you into this mess. Don’t hold back.”
I shake my head, suddenly exhausted by his mercurial shifts. “You’re insane,” I mutter, turning away again to stare into the distance.
“Probably,” Kit agrees cheerfully. “But at least I’m not boring.” He waits for a response, and when I don’t give one, he sighs dramatically. “And we‘re back to moping again. Come on, plant lady, where’s that fire?”
I clench my jaw and refuse to rise to Kit’s bait, focusing instead on controlling my breathing. In for four, hold for seven, out for eight. It’s what I’ve always done when I feel stressed, but now it’s laughably inadequate for the situation I find myself in. It is, however, better than dissolving into hysterics.
A burly man with tattoos crawling up his neck interrupts, appearing from a doorway across the warehouse. “Food’s ready,” he announces gruffly.
Kit immediately brightens. “Excellent!” He claps his hands together once, the sound sharp in the cavernous space. Around us, men start shuffling toward the door at the far end of the room, some moving faster than others.
“Come on,” Kit says, standing and gesturing for me to follow. “Let’s eat.”
I glare up at him, suddenly aware of how much I resent being ordered around like a pet. “I’m not hungry,” I lie. “I just want to go back to my room.” Although the word “room” is stretching it. It’s really more of a glorified storage closet with a cot.
Kit’s expression darkens slightly, and I realize this is the first time I’ve seen him get annoyed at me. “It wasn’t a request,” he says, his voice losing its cheerful edge.
I hold his gaze, a reckless defiance building in me. What more can he do to me? Kill me? We stare at each other, neither willing to back down, until my treacherous stomach ruins the moment by letting out an audible growl.
Kit laughs, the tension breaking. “Your body disagrees with you,” he says, his easy smile returning. “Come on, plant lady. Time to eat.”
I won’t give him the satisfaction of knowing just how much I hate that nickname, but I do stand, acutely aware that there’s no point fighting this particular battle. I need food if I’m going to keep my wits about me. And I’m going to need every ounce of clarity I can muster if I’m going to get out of here alive.
Kit leads me out the door and down another long, dimly lit hallway. I try to memorize the route, noting the turns and doors, filing away anything that might help me later. Eventually, we enter another room where several card tables and folding chairs have been set up in loose rows. The scent of cooking food fills the air: grilled meat, fried onions, toasted bread. My stomach growls again, more insistently this time.
Several propane camp stoves line one wall, along with a couple of mini fridges. Standing at one of the stoves, flipping burgers with surprising competence, is Wrath. He looks different today; still tense, still dangerous, but the wild fury from yesterday seems to have banked to a sullen simmer.
“Little D’s on kitchen duty today,” Kit announces cheerfully as he guides me toward a table. “A punishment for trying to sneak into your room and kill you last night.”
I stumble, my head whipping around to stare at Kit. “What?”
Kit shrugs, as if it’s of no consequence. “Don’t worry, he didn’t get very far. I caught him with his lock picks and a rather nasty looking knife. Confiscated both and decided kitchen duty was a better punishment than breaking his fingers. I need those intact.”
He says this so casually, so matter-of-factly, that it takes me a moment to process. This kid tried to murder me in my sleep, and Kit’s punishment was… making him cook dinner? The absolute insanity of it all makes me want to laugh and scream simultaneously.
“Take a seat,” Kit says, gesturing to a chair. I sink into it, feeling the eyes of a dozen bikers on me as they file into the room and take their places at the tables. Kit sits directly across from me, stretching his long legs out under the table. His boot brushes against my calf, and I jerk my legs away.
Wrath approaches, balancing two plates. He sets them down with a clatter, shoving one toward me without meeting my eyes. A burger sits on the plate, alongside a small bag of chips. The burger looks… normal. Surprisingly good, even with melted cheese and a toasted bun. But I hesitate, staring at it with mixed feelings. I haven’t eaten meat since high school. The thought of starting now, with a burger made by someone who so clearly wishes he could kill me, is less than appealing.