“That,” he hisses, his voice a low, dangerous purr, “was extremely ill-advised.”
I want to look away, want to cower and plead for mercy. But something inside me refuses to bend. I meet his gaze steadily, saying nothing.
Kit studies my face for a long moment, blood still dripping from his nose. Then, without warning, he turns and starts walking back toward the warehouse, dragging me alongside him. His stride is punishingly fast, forcing me to stumble and half-run to keep from being dragged.
The journey back through the forest seems much shorter than my desperate flight. We break through the treeline, and I see the warehouse again, squat and ugly against the blue sky.
No wonder Kit isn’t worried about my screams being heard. We could be miles from the nearest human being.
By the time we reach the asphalt lot, more men have gathered outside the emergency exit, all watching our approach. I count twelve, all wearing expressions that range from anger to amusement to cold indifference. I force myself to walk as steadily as I can, chin lifted, eyes forward. I’m tired of cowering. Tired of being afraid. If they’re going to kill me for trying to escape, I’ll at least face it with some dignity.
Kit doesn’t slow his pace as we reach the door, practically hauling me over the threshold and back into the artificial light and stale air of the warehouse. My eyes struggle to adjust to the dimness after the bright sunlight, and I stumble as Kit continues his relentless march through the corridors.
We end up back in the main room, where I’ve spent most of my captivity. Kit finally releases my arm, shoving me toward the folding chair that’s become my designated seat.
“Sit,” he orders, his voice clipped and cold.
I sink into the chair, watching warily as Kit begins to pace the perimeter of the room. His movements are jerky and tense, like acaged tiger. Occasionally, he stops to kick something or to stand with his hands on his hips, chest heaving with barely controlled rage. No one speaks. No one dares.
I can see Wrath watching me out of the corner of my eye. He’s back in his usual spot on the worn leather couch. There’s a fresh bruise on his cheek, and I notice his ever present knife is missing now. There’s something different in his eyes as they meet mine. The murderous hatred seems to have dimmed slightly, replaced by something I can’t quite name.
I raise an eyebrow at him, a silent question.
He shakes his head, the ghost of a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. “That was really dumb,” he says, his voice carrying easily across the quiet room. “We’re in the middle of nowhere. Where did you think you were going?”
I have no answer for that. The truth is, I hadn’t thought that far ahead. Freedom was the only goal, the only thought in my mind. The practicalities of surviving alone in the wilderness hadn’t entered the equation.
Kit’s pacing finally stops. He plants himself in front of my chair, looming over me, his face still smeared with drying blood from his nose.
I meet his gaze, refusing to look away. Whatever happens next, I won’t give him the satisfaction of seeing me afraid.
“I think,” Kit says slowly, each word precisely measured, “that I may have made a mistake.”
He takes a step closer, and it takes every ounce of willpower not to shrink back in my seat.
“You seem to be under the impression that you’re not a captive anymore,” he continues, his voice dropping to a dangerous softness. “That you can just leave whenever you want. That you can behave however you want. That you can treat my men however you want.”
Another step closer. He’s standing right in front of me now, so close that his legs are almost touching my knees.
“Let me remind you,” he says, bending down until his face is level with mine, “that you are my captive. I decide if you live or die. I decide if you eat or starve. I decide if you suffer or not.”
He straightens and turns away, resuming his agitated pacing.
Something inside me snaps.
“But what is the point?” I burst out, the words escaping before I can stop them.
Kit whirls back toward me, mouth open to deliver what I’m sure would be another threat, but I cut him off. I stand, closing the distance between us until we’re almost nose to nose.
“What is the point of all this?” I demand, gesturing wildly around the room. “Roman doesn’t care! Or maybe he cares, but not the way you want him to. If you really wanted to hurt Roman, hurting the club would be the only way to do that. The Rejects are the only thing Roman cares about!”
I’m breathing hard now, my hands balled into fists at my sides. “So what is the point of keeping me here? What do you hope to accomplish?”
Kit stares at me, his expression unreadable. And then, to my utter confusion, he starts to laugh. It begins as a chuckle, then grows into full-blown laughter that bounces off the concrete walls.
“You really do believe that, don’t you?” he says, wiping a tear from his eye with the back of his hand.
“It’s true,” I insist, though my conviction wavers in the face of his amusement.