I think it’s been three or four days since I was kidnapped. There are no windows, no clocks. Nothing to mark the time except for the mind numbing schedule of oatmeal to start the day, and then I’m taken out to what I’ve come to call the main room. I stay there for a while. Sometimes food is brought out to us; sometimes we all go back to the makeshift kitchen to eat. Then I’m led back to my room for a few hours of uneasy sleep until someone unlocks the door to bring in my breakfast tray and the cycle starts over again.
The fear that held me immobile those first days has begun to harden into something else. Anger. Not the hot, flashing kind that burns itself out quickly, but the cold, steady kind that can be honed into a weapon. Into determination.
Roman isn’t coming for me. I’m more certain of that than ever. If I’m getting out of here, it will be because I found a way myself.
I set the empty bowl back on the tray just as the door to my “room” swings open without warning. Tank fills the doorframe completely, his massive shoulders nearly touching both sides. His shaved head looks almost comically small atop his bull-like neck. The bushy beard that covers the lower half of his face twitches as he looks at me, but as usual, he doesn’t speak. He simply jerks his head toward the hallway and turns, clearly expecting me to follow.
I’ve learned quickly that Tank almost never speaks. For whatever reason, he communicates primarily in grunts and gestures. His silence unnerves the others sometimes, I’ve noticed, but it doesn’t bother me.
I stand, smoothing down the same dress I’ve been wearing since I was taken. Once green and pretty, it’s now stainedand wrinkled beyond salvation. I follow Tank into the hallway, counting my steps, noting the turns as I’ve done each time I’ve been escorted through these concrete corridors. Fifteen steps from my room to the first right turn. Another twenty-two to the double doors that lead into the main room.
Sometimes Kit is there, sometimes not. When he is, he often plays cards with me, acting for all the world like we’re old friends just passing time. He asks me questions about my life, my childhood, my job. Never about Roman or the club. Never what I would expect from someone who kidnapped me for leverage.
When Kit isn’t there, I sit in a folding chair, watched by whichever men are assigned to guard me that day, staring at the wall until my eyes blur. The monotony is its own kind of torture.
Tank pushes open the double doors, and I step into the room. Kit is already there, lounging in a chair at the card table where we usually sit, his golden hair catching the harsh fluorescent light.
As usual, I pause for a moment to take a look around. Sprawled across a worn leather couch is Wrath. His long legs are stretched out before him, one arm thrown carelessly over the back of the sofa. In his free hand, he’s flicking a switchblade open and closed with hypnotic regularity. Click-snap. Click-snap.
Kit looks up as I approach, those eerie golden-green eyes studying me with their usual curious intensity. “Good morning, plant lady,” he says pleasantly. “I trust you slept well?”
I don’t answer and I don’t sit down immediately either. Something feels different today. There’s a tension in the air, a restlessness. I notice it in the way the other men move around the room, in the rapid click-snap of Wrath’s knife, in the slight tightness around Kit’s eyes.
And suddenly, an idea flares to life in my mind. A terrible, reckless, possibly suicidal idea. But an idea nonetheless.
I’ve been watching them for days now. Observing the dynamics. Kit is clearly in charge; his authority is absolute despite his casual manner. But Wrath… Wrath is a powder keg. His rage feels barely contained at the best of times. He hasn’t had any outbursts that I’ve witnessed since that first night, but every day he’s a little surlier. Shorter-tempered. The knife rarely leaves his hands now, and the click-clack of it opening and shutting has just become background noise.
If I could use that volatility… if I could provoke him into an outburst big enough to create a distraction…
It’s madness. Pure, self-destructive madness. But I’m desperate, and desperation makes for terrible decision-making.
I place my hands on my hips and glare at Kit, who is looking at me with one brow raised and a curious expression on his face.
“I want clean clothes,” I announce, my voice louder and steadier than I expected. “And I want a shower. With soap and shampoo. I also want a toothbrush and toothpaste. And a hairbrush.”
Around the room, heads turn toward me. Kit raises an eyebrow, surprise flickering across his handsome face before it settles into mild amusement. “Is that so?”
“Yes,” I say, lifting my chin. “That is so. I’ve been wearing the same thing for days. It’s disgusting.” I gesture at my dress with distaste, then turn deliberately toward Wrath. “And I’m tired of oatmeal every morning. I’d appreciate something different for breakfast tomorrow.”
Wrath doesn’t respond verbally, but the click-snap of his knife speeds up. His eyes narrow as he looks at me. I force myself to hold his gaze for at least three seconds before turning back to Kit with a prim, “Thank you.”
My heart is racing and I almost feel lightheaded, but I keep my expression neutral. Around us, Kit’s men have gone still,watching, waiting to see how their leader will respond to this unexpected show of defiance.
Kit studies me for a long moment, head tilted slightly as if I’m a puzzle he’s trying to solve. Then, unexpectedly, he chuckles. “Well, well. Didn’t I say I wanted a bit more fire from you?” He shakes his head, still smiling. “Scorpion!”
Scorpion is a thin man with dark, close set eyes. It’s usually either him or Tank who are assigned to guard me. “Yeah, boss?”
Kit waves a hand in my direction. “Our guest would like some fresh clothes. What size are you, Kayla?”
I tell him, surprised he’s actually accommodating my demand.
“Get her some clothes in that size,” Kit instructs Scorpion. “And toiletries. Clear out the shower room for her tonight.”
Scorpion looks from Kit to me, then back to Kit. “You sure about this, boss?”
“Did I stutter?” Kit’s voice drops to that dangerous softness that makes everyone around him tense.
“No, boss. Consider it done.” Scorpion shoots me a look that promises retribution before striding out of the room.