Chapter 14
Kayla
I stumble around another corner, pulse hammering in my ears, bare feet silent against the cold concrete.
The corridors all look the same; endless gray passages leading nowhere, but I can’t stop.
Won’t stop. Behind me, I can hear the shouts of Kit’s mean growing closer.
I throw a glance over my shoulder, seeing nothing yet, but knowing they’re coming. My lungs burn.
My legs tremble from days of inactivity. But ahead, past a stack of wooden pallets, I spot something I haven’t seen in what feels like forever: a door with a sliver of light bleeding through its edges. Sunlight. Freedom.
I surge forward, ignoring the protest in my muscles, the sting of my scraped feet. The door has a simple push bar. I slam my palms against it, expecting resistance, alarms, something to stop me. Instead, it gives way easily, swinging open with a quiet whoosh.
The day outside is blindingly bright. I throw my arm up, shielding my eyes that have grown accustomed to fluorescent dimness and windowless rooms. For a terrifying second, I’m blind, vulnerable.
But then my vision adjusts, and I see it: the world outside.
Trees. Sky. Open space stretching beyond a cracked asphalt lot.
I take my first breath of fresh air in days, and it nearly brings me to my knees. The scent of pine, of dirt, of clean air. I want to stand here and just breathe, but the shouts inside are getting closer.
Run.
My bare feet hit asphalt, then gravel, each step sending jolts of pain up my legs.
I’m running on pure adrenaline now, the torn hem of my once-pretty dress flapping around my knees.
I scan my surroundings as I run. The warehouse sits in a small clearing, surrounded by dense pine forest. No roads that I can see.
No neighboring buildings. Just trees and more trees stretching in every direction. Where am I?
It doesn’t matter. What matters is how much distance I can put between myself and that warehouse.
Behind me, the emergency door bangs open. A voice bellows my name, followed by a string of curses. I don’t look back. I can’t afford to. Every second, every step counts.
I aim for the treeline, perhaps a hundred yards away. If I can reach the forest, maybe I can lose them among the pines. Hide somewhere until nightfall. Find a road eventually. Something. Anything is better than being dragged back to that concrete prison.
“She’s heading for the trees!” someone yells. “Cut her off!”
I push harder, my breath coming in ragged gasps. The dress tangles around my legs, hampering my stride. The treeline is getting closer. Fifty yards. Forty. Thirty.
A stitch forms in my side, a white-hot needle digging between my ribs. My body isn’t ready for this. Days of confinement, stress, and poor sleep have taken their toll. But I can‘t stop. Not now.
I hit the trees at full speed, branches whipping at my face and arms as I plunge into the relative darkness of the forest. Pine needles cushion my steps, a small mercy for my battered feet.
I weave between trunks, ducking under low branches, trying to be as quiet as possible while maintaining speed.
Behind me, I hear them crashing through the underbrush like bulls, not bothering with stealth. They’re gaining. Of course, they are. They’re well-fed, well-rested men who know these woods. I’m a half-starved woman in a torn cocktail dress who hasn’t seen sunlight in days.
Still, I push on, changing direction randomly, hoping to confuse my pursuers. My breath scrapes in my throat. Sweat runs into my eyes, blurring my vision. A branch catches my hair, yanking painfully at my scalp. I tear free, leaving strands behind, not caring about the sting.
“I see her!” The voice is much closer than it should be. “Over here!”
No. No. I can‘t let them catch me. I can’t go back. I dart left, then right, zigzagging between trees. My foot catches on an exposed root, and I stumble, nearly falling. The momentary loss of speed costs me precious seconds.
Heavy footsteps thunder behind me, closing fast. I try to sprint, but my legs are turning to jelly beneath me. I push through a dense cluster of saplings, branches scratching at my arms and face—
And then I’m yanked backward, my momentum halting so suddenly that my teeth clack together painfully. A strong arm wraps around my waist, hauling me back against a solid chest. I twist my head around, looking up into a familiar face.
Kit.
I scream, more from rage than fear, thrashing wildly in his grip.
His breath is hot against my ear as he hisses something I can’t make out over the roaring in my head.
I twist, throw my head back with all the force I can muster, feeling a satisfying crunch as the back of my skull connects with his nose.
Kit curses, his grip loosening just enough. I tear free, stumbling forward, trying to regain my momentum. But I’ve only managed three steps before his hand closes around my upper arm, yanking me back again.
He spins me around to face him, and what I see freezes the blood in my veins.
Gone is the playful, almost charming psychopath with the disarming smile. In his place stands a fury-faced stranger, blood streaming from his nose down his perfect lips and onto his chin. His golden-green eyes are flat and cold, like those of a predator who’s done playing with its food.
This, I realize with sickening clarity, is what Kit looks like when he‘s truly angry. And it’s terrifying.
I stop struggling, my survival instinct finally overriding my desperate bid for freedom. Behind Kit, three more men crash through the underbrush, coming to a halt when they see us. None of them look happy. In fact, they all look like they’d happily snap my neck if Kit gave the word.
Kit still has my arm in a viselike grip, his fingers digging into my flesh hard enough to leave bruises. He leans in close, close enough that I can feel the warmth of his breath, see the flecks of gold in his eyes.
“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 a caged 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.
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 them so 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.