As we head for our bikes, I can’t stop thinking about why Kayla called the police instead of me. Is she angry? Hurt? Afraid? The possibilities twist in my gut.
But it doesn’t matter. Nothing matters except that she’s alive. Whatever comes next, whatever damage Demon has done to us, whatever wounds have been opened, we’ll face it together. If she’ll have me. God, I hope she’ll have me.
I kick my bike to life, the familiar rumble grounding me in the present moment. Kayla is alive. Everything else is secondary. I follow Dragon out of the lot, heading toward the hospital, toward my wife, toward whatever remains of the life we once had.
16
Chapter 16
Kayla
Kayla
The chili bubbles in the pot, releasing a rich aroma that fills the makeshift kitchen. I stir it slowly, watching the thick red liquid swirl and eddy around the spoon. Three days since my failed escape, and somehow I’ve gone from captive to camp cook. I glance over at Wrath, who’s aggressively attacking a potato with a knife, his jaw set in that permanent scowl that seems to be his default expression. At least he’s no longer looking at me like he’s imagining the most creative ways to end my life. Progress, I suppose.
“You’re peeling those too thick,” I say, unable to help myself. “You’re wasting half the potato.”
Wrath’s hands still for a moment. He looks up at me, those eerie golden-green eyes narrowing slightly before he goes backto his peeling. But instead of the murderous rage I’d have seen a few days ago, there’s just irritation now.
“Might be easier if you used the peeler,” I say, pointing to the box of kitchen utensils.
“You want to do it yourself?” he asks, holding the knife out handle-first.
“No,” I say quickly. “Just… try to take thinner strips.”
He mutters something under his breath that I don’t catch, but his next peeling stroke is noticeably more controlled. I hide my smile by turning back to the chili.
Yesterday, Wrath got into a fistfight with Scorpion. I don’t know how it started, but I know it ended with Scorpion’s nose being broken and Kit dragging Wrath off by the scruff of his neck like an angry cat. He deposited Wrath in the kitchen with me, announcing that since Wrath couldn‘t play nice with the big boys, he could help me cook instead.
The punishment seems to have landed as intended. Wrath hates being in here almost as much as he hated his previous kitchen duty. But as he’s not actively trying to stab me anymore, I don’t mind having him around.
I absently brush a fleck of dried chili off my bright pink sweatshirt, only to realize too late that my fingers are still damp, leaving a darker pink splotch on the fabric. I sigh. Not that it matters; it’s not like I‘m trying to impress anyone with my appearance.
The sweatshirt and matching sweatpants had appeared the night after my escape attempt. I’d been shocked when Kit still allowed me the shower he’d promised, and even more surprised when he handed me the bundle of clean clothes afterward. The garish shade of pink had made me wince, but anything was better than the filthy, torn dress I’d been wearing for days.
“Really?” I’d asked, holding up the sweatshirt with distaste.
Kit had just smirked, his eyes glinting with amusement. “Try hiding in the trees in that,” he’d said, and turned away. The message was clear: I could try to run again, but I’d be visible from a mile away.
I add another pinch of cumin to the chili, then reach for the salt. Cooking for a dozen or so bikers is not how I’d imagined spending my captivity, but it gives me something to do besides sit in that damn folding chair staring at the wall. Not only has the quality of the food improved dramatically since I took over, but I haven’t had to eat oatmeal once.
The door bangs open behind me, and I jump, nearly dropping the salt shaker into the pot. I turn to see Kit striding into the kitchen, his face a thundercloud. Something’s wrong. In my days of watching him, I’ve learned that Kit’s anger comes in different flavors. There’s the cold, controlled anger he showed after my escape. There’s the hot, explosive anger he sometimes directs at his men. And then there’s this: a frustrated, annoyed anger that makes his movements jerky and his eyes flash.
“Pack it up,” he says without preamble, glancing from me to Wrath and back again. “All of it. Now.”
I stare at him, the spoon still in my hand. “What?”
“You heard me,” Kit snaps. “Pack everything. We’re moving.”
“Moving?” I repeat, feeling slow and stupid. “Moving where?”
Kit runs a hand through his hair, mussing the golden waves. “Somewhere else,” he says unhelpfully. “My idiot brother has gotten himself involved, and this place isn’t safe anymore.”
I blink, trying to process this new information. Brother? Kit has a brother? Of course, I guess I’d assumed that Wrath was closely related to Kit, probably even brothers given how much they look alike. And logically I knew Kit must have a family somewhere, must have come from someplace, been someone’s son. But in my mind, he’s always existed fully formed, springinginto the world as this strange, mercurial creature who kidnapped me and made me cook chili.
“Wrath,” Kit says, his voice sharp. “With me. Now.”
Wrath immediately sets down the potato and knife, shooting me a look I can’t quite interpret before following Kit out of the kitchen. The door closes behind them, and I’m left alone with a pot of half-finished chili and a pile of half-peeled potatoes.