Kit shakes his head, the last of his laughter dying away. “On the contrary, plant lady. It would seem Roman has finally sorted out his priorities. Losing you hit him hard, I’m afraid, and I’m very much enjoying watching your husband scurry around like an impotent little rodent trying to find you.”
I drop back into my chair; the fight draining out of me. “Please,” I say quietly. “Just let me go.”
Kit studies me for a long moment, head tilted slightly to one side. “Not yet, I think,” he says finally. But the anger is gone from his voice.
He reaches down and lifts me out of the chair by my elbow, his touch firm but no longer bruising. “Come with me.”
“Where are we going?” I ask, too drained to resist as he leads me toward the door.
“You’re getting the same consequence that every person here gets when they make my life hard,” Kit replies, steering me through the corridors.
We end up in the makeshift kitchen where meals are prepared. It‘s a disaster zone; dirty pots and pans are piled in a couple of large plastic bins, ingredients are scattered across countertops, food scraps are on the floor. The air smells sour.
Kit gestures around at the chaos. “I can’t get the boy to do dishes or clean up after himself, no matter what I do,” he says, sounding aggrieved. “You’re on kitchen duty now. I want this place spic and span by dinnertime. We eat at seven.”
And with that, he turns and leaves, as if I haven’t just tried to escape, as if we haven’t just had a confrontation that could have ended with my death. As if this is all perfectly normal.
I stand in the middle of the kitchen, blinking in disbelief, when a movement catches my eye. Wrath leans against the doorframe, watching me with that same unreadable expression.
“Look at it this way,” he says. “Now you can make yourself whatever you want for breakfast tomorrow.”
Then he too is gone, leaving me alone with only Tank‘s silent presence by the door to remind me that I’m still very much a captive.
I start filling pots with water from the plastic jugs sitting in one corner. Lighting the camp stoves, I put the pots on themso the water can heat up. I find the dish soap and sponges. The whole time, I feel strangely hollow. Outside these walls, somewhere, Roman is looking for me, if Kit can be believed. But I’m no closer to freedom than I was an hour ago.
At least, I think as I dump the first pot full of hot water into the makeshift sink, I won’t have to eat Wrath’s horrible oatmeal tomorrow.
15
Chapter 15
Roman
It’s been eight days since Kayla disappeared. Eight days of searching until I can barely keep my eyes open, only to collapse in some motel room for a few hours before starting again. My body is running on caffeine and fear, my body screaming for rest while my mind races in endless circles. But I can’t stop. Won’t stop. Not until I find her.
My bike rumbles beneath me as I pull into the gas station, the tank nearly empty after another day of futile searching. The neon sign flickers overhead, casting sickly blue and red shadows across the cracked asphalt. It’s the kind of place that would make Kayla wrinkle her nose; grimy windows, peeling paint, air thick with the smell of burnt coffee and cigarettes.
The thought of her sends another spike of pain through my chest. She’s out there somewhere, waiting for me to find her. And I’m failing her.
I cut the engine and swing my leg off the bike, my joints protesting the movement. How long have I been riding today? Eight hours? Ten? The days have started to blur together, one desperate search bleeding into the next.
I’ve called in every favor I’ve ever been owed. Talked to snitches, dealers, guys who fence stolen goods, anyone who might have crossed paths with Demon or his crew. I’ve put the word out with a network of truckers who keep their eyes open for a price, with the bartenders and bouncers at the seedier establishments where men like Demon might show their faces.
Yesterday, I spent three hours digging through the charred remains of the Hell’s Fury clubhouse that we burned down last year, hoping to find anything that might lead me to where Demon would take Kayla. All I got was splinters in my palms.
My phone buzzes in my pocket for at least the twentieth time today. Pulling it out, I take a look. Atlas again. I shove it back in my pocket without answering. Over the past several days, Atlas’s threats have given way to promises of amnesty if I return. Naomi’s messages swing between anger and pleading. The brothers send texts trying to guilt me into coming back, reminding me of my responsibilities to the club, to the brotherhood. As if any of that matters now.
I ignore the buzzing and push through the gas station door. The fluorescent lights inside are harsh, making my eyes ache. My reflection in the security mirror above the counter makes me wince, I’m hollow eyed and my clothes are rumpled and stained from days of wear. I barely recognize myself.
The clerk barely glances up as I grab a pre-packaged sandwich from the refrigerator case and the largest energy drinkthey sell. I toss a few bills on the counter, not waiting for change, and head back outside.
Once there, I stop short with a muffled curse. Naomi is leaning against my bike, her red curls catching the neon light, turning them an unnatural crimson. Flanking her are three of my brothers; Axe, Diesel, and Reaper. Three of Atlas’s most loyal enforcers. They’re watching me warily.
An ambush, then. But I’m too tired to care.
I walk past them without acknowledgment, unwrapping the sandwich as I go. The bread is stale, the ham of questionable freshness, but I force it down anyway. Fuel for the body. Nothing more.
“Are you seriously going to ignore us?” Naomi’s voice is sharp with indignation. “We’ve been looking for you for days.”