Chapter 7
Kayla
The truck lurches to a stop, throwing me once again against the cold metal bed.
My body is a map of pain; hands and feet numb from being bound, knees raw from sliding across the ridged surface, body chilled from the freezing wind.
But I’m alive. The realization offers no comfort as the engine cuts off, leaving only the sound of my ragged breathing inside the suffocating bag over my head.
This is it. Whatever happens next, I am all alone.
Roman isn’t coming to save me. No one is coming to save me.
The driver’s door slams, followed by footsteps crunching on what sounds like gravel. My heart hammers against my ribs as the footsteps circle around to the back of the truck. Metal groans as the tailgate drops, sending vibrations through the truck bed beneath me.
More footsteps. A second set. Two voices. One is gruff, low, indistinguishable. The other is strangely pleasant; smooth and articulate with an edge of amusement.
“Why,” asks the pleasant voice from somewhere above me, “is she in the truck bed?”
I strain to hear the response, but it’s too muffled, too low.
“She could have fallen out,” the pleasant voice continues, sounding almost disappointed. “Then it would have been you picking pieces of her up off the side of the road.” A pause. “Haven’t I taught you anything, Moose?”
Again, I can’t hear the response, just a gruff rumble.
“Well, don’t just stand there. Get her inside. And get that stupid thing off your face.” The pleasant voice has hardened slightly now. “You look like you’re about to go rob a bank.”
Rough hands grab my ankles and yank. I slide across the truck bed, unable to brace myself with my bound hands, and then I’m falling.
For a terrifying moment, I’m suspended in air, and then I slam into something solid.
The impact forces the little air I have out of my lungs, and I choke against the gag in my mouth.
I’m hoisted up and over, my stomach pressing uncomfortably into what must be my kidnapper’s shoulder. Blood rushes to my head as I dangle upside down, making me dizzy. Each step jostles me, sending fresh waves of pain through my already battered body.
“Careful with her,” the same pleasant voice says, sounding almost amused. “We don’t want to damage our guest before we’ve even had a chance to chat.”
Guest. The word makes bile rise in my throat. This isn’t a social call. This is my worst nightmare coming to life.
We move from gravel to something smoother, concrete or asphalt. The sounds change too, growing hollow, as if we’ve entered a large, empty space. My kidnapper’s footsteps echo slightly. We’re inside somewhere.
Without warning, I’m swung off his shoulder and dropped. I hit the ground hard; the concrete cold beneath me. The impact knocks what little breath I have from my lungs, and I lie there, struggling to breathe through the cloth stuffed in my mouth.
“What the hell, Moose?” The pleasant voice again, now tinged with annoyance. “Untie her and help her into a chair. She’s not a sack of potatoes.”
Silence. No movement.
“For God’s sake,” the voice says, closer now. “Do I have to do everything myself?”
A door opens and closes somewhere nearby. More footsteps. Then hands on me again, but different this time, less rough, more hesitant. The bag is pulled from my head in one swift motion, and I gasp against the gag, blinking rapidly against the sudden light.
It’s not bright, but after the complete darkness of the bag, it’s blinding. I squeeze my eyes shut, then slowly open them again, trying to adjust. Everything is a blur of shapes and shadows.
I feel hands at my wrists, tugging at the zip ties. There’s a snipping sound, and suddenly my hands are free. The blood rushes back into my fingers, bringing with it a burning sensation that makes me wince. The same hands move to my ankles, and then those bonds are gone too.
Finally, gentle fingers work at the cloth in my mouth, pulling it free. I cough and gasp, sweet air filling my lungs properly for the first time in what feels like hours.
“There we go,” the pleasant voice says. “That’s better, isn’t it? Help her into the chair.”
Hands under my arms lift me up, guiding me to a metal folding chair. My legs are wobbly, half-numb from being bound, and I collapse into the seat more than sit. I blink rapidly, my vision slowly clearing as my eyes adjust to the light.
I rub my wrists, trying to restore circulation, and take in my surroundings through watering eyes.
I’m in some kind of warehouse or large garage.
Concrete floors, high ceilings with exposed metal beams, no windows that I can see.
The space is scattered with motorcycles, workbenches, and various pieces of furniture that look like they were salvaged from a dozen different yard sales.
Men in leather cuts lounge around the space in small clusters, some watching me with open curiosity, others pretending not to be interested. I count at least twelve of them.
Two men stand directly in front of me. The one closest to me is unremarkable; just another biker with a shaved head, tattoos creeping up his neck and a completely forgettable face that’s mostly hidden by a scraggly beard. The other man, however…
I stare, unable to help myself. He’s beautiful.
That’s the only word I can think of to describe him.
He’s tall, easily six-two or six-three, with a lean, muscular build that his black t-shirt and jeans do nothing to hide.
His hair is golden blond and falls in soft waves to his collar.
But it’s his eyes that make my breath catch; they’re an eerie golden green, like a cat’s eyes caught in sunlight.
They’re beautiful and terrifying all at once.
Unlike most bikers, his face is clean-shaven, showcasing features that wouldn’t be out of place on a classical statue: high cheekbones, a strong jaw, a perfectly proportioned nose.
The only flaw in this otherwise perfect face is a vivid scar that slashes down the right side, from his temple across his cheek, ending just above his lip.
The scar somehow makes him more striking rather than less.
He walks toward me, and I tense, bracing myself for… I don’t know what. But all he does is extend a bottle of water toward me.
“Drink,” he says, and I recognize the pleasant voice from earlier.
My hands are shaking so badly I nearly drop the bottle as I take it. I unscrew the cap and gulp greedily, the cool water heaven on my parched throat. I should probably be worried about being drugged, but my mouth is too dry to care.
The man watches me with those unnerving eyes, his head tilted slightly to one side. There’s something almost clinical in his gaze, as if I’m a specimen he’s studying. But there’s also a flicker of amusement there, which somehow frightens me more than outright menace would.
I lower the bottle, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. The silence stretches between us like a taut wire. I know I should stay quiet, not antagonize these people, but the question burns in my throat until I can’t contain it anymore.
“Who are you?” My voice comes out as a raspy whisper.
His eyes never leave my face as he studies me, taking in the bruises forming on my wrists, the dirt on my dress, the tear tracks I’m sure are visible on my cheeks.
“You can call me Kit,” he answers almost absently, still cataloging my injuries.
I swallow hard. “Why am I here?”
He doesn’t answer. Instead, he turns to the man who untied me, and his expression hardens slightly.
“I specifically ordered you to bring her back unharmed.” His voice is still pleasant, but there’s an edge to it now, sharp as a razor.
Moose doesn’t look particularly concerned. He shrugs his massive shoulders. “She’s alive, isn’t she? Stop bitching.”
Kit’s eyes narrow, and though his expression barely changes, something in the air shifts. The temperature in the room drops several degrees.
Moose seems to realize that he made a mistake because he quickly says in a much less dismissive tone, “Look at it this way prez, If Viper thinks we’re roughing her up a bit, it’ll scare him, right? He’ll get reckless, do something stupid.”
Kit still doesn’t say anything, just studies Moose for a minute.
The whole room seems to hold its breath.
Then Kit smiles and says, “Clever, Moose, very clever. I was starting to wonder if you had any brains at all in that boulder you call a head. Next time you mouth off to me, maybe we’ll crack it open and see. ”
With that, Kit turns back towards me, and I fight the urge to shrink away from those unsettling eyes. Behind him, I can see Moose let out a small breath and the tense line of his shoulders relax slightly.
Kit opens his mouth, but before he can say anything, another voice cuts in from behind me. “We’re just going to kill her anyway, so why are we wasting time?”
I jerk around in my seat, nearly falling off it in my haste to see who’s speaking.
A young man steps out of the shadows and moves to stand next to Kit.
For a disorienting second, I think it’s Kit again.
This man is younger, I doubt he’s even reached twenty, with a lean, wiry build.
He has the same eerie golden-green eyes and sharp jawline as Kit.
But where Kit’s hair is golden blonde, his hair is jet black.
And where Kit seems relaxed, almost amused, this boy radiates fury.
It rolls off him in waves, turning the air around him electric.
Kit sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. “Why would I have gone to the trouble of bringing her here if I was just going to kill her? That’s poor planning, and you know I hate poor planning.”
The angry young man just shrugs. “No witnesses here.”
Kit just rolls his eyes. I sit perfectly still, afraid that if I say anything, if I even breathe too loudly, I’ll be the one to tip the scales from “keep her alive” to “get rid of the problem.”