12. Riley
I’m notsure how long it’s been since Dante left me alone. It took me way too fucking long to stop the shakes that hit me the minute he walked out, and as soon as I managed it, the first thing I did was cross over to the door and turn the handle. Pointless, obviously, since Maddoc made it perfectly clear that I’m not going anywhere.
But to my shock, it turned.
I twisted it all the way and gave it a tug, opening it just a hair to confirm it.
They really hadn’t locked me in.
For some reason, the shock of that fucked with my head even more than everything that came before. Not that I want to be locked in… but I’m not sure I want it to be that easy for any more Reapers to walk in on me either.
I think I heard Dante leave the house earlier, but the window in my bedroom faces the back of the property, so I can’t be sure. I haven’t heard anything since, but the house is big enough that its silence doesn’t really reassure me. Besides, even if I’m right about Dante, Logan and Maddoc have to be somewhere, and who knows if there are other Reapers living here too.
Or other “involuntary guests,” like me.
Fuck.
I’m so fucked.
I need a plan, but it’s hard to make one when those three words keep playing over and over in my head, so I retreat to the bed, curl up in a ball, and go numb for a while. The numbness helps to dull the sharp edge of panic, and when I feel a little more steady, I haul my ass back up and grab the clothes Dante left me.
They smell like him. They’re clean, but with an underlying musk of man that sends heat twisting through my belly. Dante’s scent is a particular blend of spice and smoke that burrowed into my brain while he fucked me last night, and it subtly surrounds me now, wafting into my nostrils.
I almost snap the drawstring on the sweatpants as I pull it tight enough to actually make them stay on my hips, then I slip the t-shirt over my head. I have to knot the damn thing at my waist to keep it from looking like a dress, and it still slips off one shoulder like I’m in an 80s tribute band.
Once I’m dressed, I go back to the window and look out at the well-tended lawn and high fence that surrounds it. I’m sure the fence has some kind of security system installed, just like the window must. That’s not really what keeps me here, though. If Maddoc and his men want me to stay, they’ll enforce it. If I left and they wanted me back—or wanted me dead—they’d make it happen. They’ve cut me off from the world, taken my clothes and my phone, and have me at their mercy. And it terrifies me.
But even if I was offered the chance to walk out the front door right now, I wouldn’t take it.
Because I still need them.
I turn away from the window and start pacing. It doesn’t matter if Dante makes me feel all kinds of confusing things, if Logan looks at me like he’s imagining ten different ways to kill me, or if Maddoc gets off on controlling me.
The only thing that matters is getting Chloe back, and they’re my only hope of doing that.
If, like Maddoc said, they even decided to help me.
But since I’m here, since they brought me into their inner sanctuary, I can at least use the opportunity to find out whatever I can about this world Chloe and I are now a part of.
I need to understand the strengths and weaknesses of West Point and the sadistic fucker who leads it, and what I know for sure is that West Point and the Reapers are rivals. It’s why I’m fucking here. So it also stands to reason that the Reapers have information about West Point. Information I might be able to use against the gang myself if they decide not to help me.
The question is, where do I find that information?
“Not in here,” I whisper to myself, my heart going triple time as I force my feet to move toward the door despite the sense of dread that grips me at the idea of leaving the gilded cage they stuck me in.
Was leaving the door unlocked a trap? A test? I’ve got no clue, and that’s the whole problem. But the house seems quiet, and I’m not going to find any answers if I huddle in here like a frightened rabbit.
So I don’t.
I crack the door open and listen.
Silence.
I pull it open just enough to slip out, then step hesitantly into the hall, looking both ways. No Reapers. Just plush carpeting that makes it easy to move quietly, and a few closed doors in both directions.
Choosing the opposite direction from the one Logan led me down when he brought me up here, I head away from the stairs. My lungs burn as I force my breath to stay slow and even despite the way my heart races every time I imagine I hear a sound.
The first door is a bedroom, and I slip in and look around. It’s… nice. Masculine and on the lived-in side of tidy, with surprising splashes of color in the décor that make it seem almost welcoming. I can pick up the distinctive scent of Dante’s cologne or aftershave, which makes me even more certain that this is his room. I quickly riffle through his things, finding nothing of interest before returning it all to the state I found it in.
The next door is another bedroom, and it’s quite definitely not welcoming. So, Logan’s.
I skim my fingers over the top of the crisply made bed, the cool colors aesthetically pleasing but somehow slightly intimidating in a way that no bed should ever be. The corners of the duvet are so sharp I can’t believe it’s really made of cloth until I actually touch it. The personal items are minimal and laid out with a disturbing precision that makes me wonder if the fucker ever gets laid.
If he does, he doesn’t keep a drawerful of condoms next to his bed the way Dante does.
I snort back a slightly hysterical laugh for no other reason than because I’m scaring myself and getting nowhere. It’s not like the guys are going to keep West Point’s secrets in their underwear drawers.
I pull open a couple more of Logan’s drawers anyway, but don’t touch anything. Every one of them is impossibly organized and more than one—including that condom-free nightstand—contain weapons I’d rather not have known about.
Dammit. This isn’t where I need to be looking. I need to find where they keep shit related to their business.
I glance around the creepily perfect room to make sure I haven’t disturbed anything, then leave, heading back in the direction of the stairs since there are no more doors this way. The fear of getting caught makes it harder than it should be to pass by the door to “my” room, but I do.
The next door is a bathroom, but there’s nothing of interest in it. But the door after that opens into what looks like an office or a library.
That’s more like it.
My heart lurches with excitement. A room full of books, files, and ledgers—a room that honestly looks more lived in than the bedrooms do—might actually yield something I can use.
I pause in the doorway, listening hard. It’s not easy over the insistent pounding of my heart, but I close my eyes and focus on my other senses. The only way I’m going to make it through this is to stay vigilant, and the stakes are too high to make a stupid mistake.
I ignore the sound of my own breath and focus instead on all the small sounds houses make. Occasional faint creaks. A distant ticking. The quiet shushing of the ventilation system.
But no footsteps.
No sounds of life or scent of cooking.
No sudden caress of moving air to tell me doors are opening or closing in other parts of the house.
As far as I can tell, I’m alone. Definitely on this floor, and possibly in the whole house.
I’d hear it if someone came up the stairs, wouldn’t I?
I tell myself I would, then curl my toes into the soft carpet, take a slow, deep breath for courage, and open my eyes. Still alone.
Thank fuck.
My pulse finally starts to slow down, and I step into the room and start looking around.
There’s a painting on the far wall that tries to suck me in. Bright, vibrant colors explode out from a dark center. It’s a painting of nothing and everything, and I shake my head when I catch myself wasting time trying to make sense of it, then tear my gaze away.
It’s not information on West Point, and that’s all that matters.
I go to a crowded bookshelf, running my fingers over the titles. Weapon manuals. Warfare tactics. Business strategy. A few biographies, but nothing that seems like it would hold information about West Point.
There’s an empty beer bottle tucked behind the leg of the plush chair in the corner, like someone reading set it down and forgot about it. A Zippo tossed down next to a lamp. A handheld gaming system next to a stack of engine schematics. A jagged brick with a worn inscription on one of the shelves, acting as a book end. A carved wooden box.
Small signs that the fortress I’m trapped in really is a home, and that the men who live in it have lives.
Lives I’m curious about despite my best efforts not to be.
I’m starting to doubt I’ll find anything about gang activity in here—about the Reapers or West Point—but the room still gives me a small glimpse of who these men are behind the calculating, cold, ruthless demeanor they present to the world, and figuring out what makes each of them tick could still be valuable.
At least, that’s what I tell myself as I pick up the Zippo, running my fingers over the smooth metal sides as I make a slow circuit of the room to take it all in. I trail the fingertips of my other hand over the bookshelves and the small personal touches in between the books, wondering about each of them. Guessing at which of the three men chose each piece. Trying to suss out why and what I can do with the information.
I’m in front of the painting, facing away from the door, when the skin at the back of my neck prickles.
I whirl around, adrenaline surging through me even though I know I’m alone. I’m just fucking paranoid, but I haven’t heard a thing since I entered the room other than the sound of my own breath, so it’s—
Notfine.
I’m not just paranoid.
“Logan,” I blurt, dropping the Zippo as I instinctively scramble backward to get away from the cold fury on his face as he barrels down on me like an oncoming freight train.
I can’t. There’s nowhere for me to go. He comes at me with a single-minded intensity that’s far more terrifying than Austin McKenna and his gun-toting minions and threats. Logan’s icy rage isn’t a threat. It’s not even a promise. It’s like staring down death.
“Logan,” I repeat, holding up my hands to ward him off. “I—”
I don’t know what I’m planning to say, but he doesn’t give me the chance. He knocks my hands aside before I can react and locks one of his larger hands around my throat without a word, pinning me to the wall behind me. His grip isn’t tight enough to cut off my air supply, but his hand is so big that it feels like my throat is trapped in a vise. Adrenaline surges through me, and I’m sure he can feel the way my pulse beats frantically against his palm.
I yank on his arm, my fingers digging into the corded muscles of his forearm, but the man is made of fucking steel. His grip doesn’t loosen even a little bit as he steps even closer, looming over me like a dark shadow.
He holds me in place without flinching and leans in, his gaze locked on mine as he murmurs softly, “You shouldn’t have done that.”
He’s close enough for me to make out the eerie beauty of his pale blue eyes and feel the heat of his rage on my skin, and for a second, even through the panic, it shocks me. As if Logan shouldn’t have body heat, since everything else about him is ice.
Then he makes a noise in his throat, tightening his grip just enough to remind me that he’s the one in control of whether or not I get to breathe.
“Do you hear me, wildcat?” he demands. “You made a mistake. You touched my bed. You opened my drawers.” His eyes narrow, dark lashes partially obscuring the bright blue of his eyes. “You defiled my space.”
Through the rush of fight-or-flight instincts raging through my head, it hits me. The bedrooms. He’s not talking about this room, he’s talking about the bedrooms I snooped in earlier. One was his.
How the fuck did he figure out I was in there?
I was careful.
I put everything I touched back exactly as it was.
And yet… he knows.
Logan leans in even closer. So close that those pale, unblinking eyes of his are the only things I can see. So close that when he shifts his grip on my throat, his cool, clean scent floods my nostrils.
“Why are you here?” he demands in a low voice. “What… the fuck… do you really… want?”
He drags out every word, his gaze never wavering from mine. He looks more like a monster than a man in this moment, and my stomach dips as I’m hit by a terrifying thought.
If I answer his question the wrong way, there’s a good chance that Logan is going to kill me.