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 back to 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, springing into 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.
Brother. The word echoes in my mind as I turn off the camp stove and start collecting cooking utensils. I try to imagine what Kit’s brother might be like. Is he also blond and unnervingly handsome, with those strange cat-like eyes? Does he also swing between charming and terrifying like a pendulum?
Suddenly, an image forms in my mind: a whole family of them, gathered around a table for Sunday dinner.
A father with the same golden hair and sharp features, carving a roast while casually discussing who they’re planning to kidnap next.
A mother, beautiful and cold, passing the potatoes.
Several siblings, all with identical green-gold eyes, comparing notes on their various hostages.
A laugh bubbles up from my chest, unexpected and slightly hysterical.
I clamp my hand over my mouth, but it’s too late.
Once I start, I can’t stop. The laughter pours out of me, tears streaming down my face as I double over, clutching my stomach.
It’s not even that funny; it’s just so absurd.
All of it. Being kidnapped, becoming the camp cook, pink sweatshirts, Kit having a brother—
“You okay in there?” A voice calls from outside the door.
I take a deep breath, trying to compose myself. “Fine,” I call back, my voice still wobbling. “Just… just packing up.”
I wipe my eyes and get back to work, gathering pots and pans, camp stoves and cooking supplies. I’ve just about finished when the door opens again, and two of Kit’s men walk in.
They start carrying out the bins of supplies I’ve packed, not even acknowledging me.
“Can I help?” I ask, surprising myself with the offer. But anything is better than sitting around waiting.
One of the men shrugs. “Sure. Take that box.”
I pick up a box of dry goods and follow them out of the kitchen. We head down the corridor, which I now know leads to the emergency exit. For the first time since my escape attempt, I’m being allowed to go outside.
The sunlight is just as blinding as it was three days ago, and I blink rapidly, trying to adjust. As my vision clears, I see a line of pickup trucks parked in the lot, men moving back and forth loading equipment and supplies.
I set my box in the back of the nearest truck as directed, then stand for a moment, taking in deep breaths of fresh air.
The freedom I’d so desperately sought is just yards away; the tree line, the forest beyond.
But I know better now. There’s nowhere to go, nowhere to hide.
Not in this bright pink outfit, not in these unfamiliar woods.
Or is there?
My gaze shifts to the trucks. I can’t help but wonder, if I could get out here unnoticed, maybe one of them would have the keys in it. And if I was in a truck, would they even bother chasing me down at that point?
No. That’s insane. There are so many things that could go wrong. So many ways it could end badly. But a small voice in my head argues: what if they’re taking me somewhere even more remote? Somewhere where escape would be truly impossible?
“Let’s go.” A hand claps down on my shoulder, making me jump. It’s Scorpion, his close-set eyes watching me warily. “Boss wants you inside until we’re ready to move.”
I allow myself to be led back into the warehouse, through now familiar corridors, and into the main room.
My folding chair sits where it always has, a small island in a sea of organized chaos.
Men are dismantling equipment, rolling up carpets, carrying out furniture. No one is paying any attention to me.
“Stay put,” Scorpion orders, then moves away to help with the evacuation.
I sit, hands folded in my lap, watching the activity around me. My mind is racing. If I‘m ever going to make another attempt, now might be my only chance. Everyone is distracted. The doors are open. Vehicles are running.
It’s stupid. So, so stupid. But the thought of being taken somewhere new, somewhere unknown, terrifies me more than the prospect of being caught again.
I stand, keeping my movements casual. No one looks my way. I drift toward one of the doorways leading to a corridor I’ve been down before. Still, no one calls me back. I step into the hallway, my heart hammering against my ribs.
The corridor is empty. I can hear voices and the sounds of movement from rooms on either side, but no one is in sight. I walk faster, trying to remember which way leads to the side of the building where the trucks are parked. Left at the junction, then right… or is it right, then left?
I turn right at the first intersection, then left at the second. The sounds of activity grow more distant behind me. Am I going the wrong way? I pause, trying to orient myself, when I see it: a door at the end of the corridor with daylight peeking around its edges.
Hope surges in my chest. I move forward, picking up my pace. The door grows closer with each step. Ten feet away. Five feet. I reach out, my fingers closing around the handle—