Chapter 13
Kayla
The oatmeal sits like a lump in my stomach, congealing the way it did in the cheap plastic bowl.
I scrape the last few bites with the plastic spoon, swallowing mechanically, and make myself a promise that when I get out of this, I’ll never eat oatmeal again.
It doesn’t help that there is never any milk.
No sugar. Not even a pinch of salt. Just a bowl full of grayish paste.
Wrath makes it this way on purpose. I’m certain of it.
I’ve never seen anyone else but him cook.
When I eat with the others, the food is good, very good even.
But the first time I was served oatmeal, Wrath brought it to me himself.
He’d shoved the tray at me, a cruel smile playing at the corners of his mouth.
“Compliments of the chef,” he’d muttered before stalking out and slamming the door behind him.
At the time, I hadn’t even noticed what was in the bowl; I had just been grateful he hadn’t tried to kill me.
Now, it’s usually Scorpion or Tank who brings me my breakfast. But the contents of the bowl are always the same.
Punishment porridge, I’ve come to call it.
I think it’s been three or four days since I was kidnapped.
There are no windows, no clocks. Nothing to mark the time except for the mind numbing schedule of oatmeal to start the day, and then I’m taken out to what I’ve come to call the main room.
I stay there for a while. Sometimes food is brought out to us; sometimes we all go back to the makeshift kitchen to eat.
Then I’m led back to my room for a few hours of uneasy sleep until someone unlocks the door to bring in my breakfast tray and the cycle starts over again.
The fear that held me immobile those first days has begun to harden into something else. Anger. Not the hot, flashing kind that burns itself out quickly, but the cold, steady kind that can be honed into a weapon. Into determination.
Roman isn’t coming for me. I’m more certain of that than ever. If I’m getting out of here, it will be because I found a way myself.
I set the empty bowl back on the tray just as the door to my “room” swings open without warning.
Tank fills the doorframe completely, his massive shoulders nearly touching both sides.
His shaved head looks almost comically small atop his bull-like neck.
The bushy beard that covers the lower half of his face twitches as he looks at me, but as usual, he doesn’t speak.
He simply jerks his head toward the hallway and turns, clearly expecting me to follow.
I’ve learned quickly that Tank almost never speaks. For whatever reason, he communicates primarily in grunts and gestures. His silence unnerves the others sometimes, I’ve noticed, but it doesn’t bother me.
I stand, smoothing down the same dress I’ve been wearing since I was taken.
Once green and pretty, it’s now stained and wrinkled beyond salvation.
I follow Tank into the hallway, counting my steps, noting the turns as I’ve done each time I’ve been escorted through these concrete corridors.
Fifteen steps from my room to the first right turn.
Another twenty-two to the double doors that lead into the main room.
Sometimes Kit is there, sometimes not. When he is, he often plays cards with me, acting for all the world like we’re old friends just passing time.
He asks me questions about my life, my childhood, my job.
Never about Roman or the club. Never what I would expect from someone who kidnapped me for leverage.
When Kit isn’t there, I sit in a folding chair, watched by whichever men are assigned to guard me that day, staring at the wall until my eyes blur. The monotony is its own kind of torture.
Tank pushes open the double doors, and I step into the room. Kit is already there, lounging in a chair at the card table where we usually sit, his golden hair catching the harsh fluorescent light.
As usual, I pause for a moment to take a look around.
Sprawled across a worn leather couch is Wrath.
His long legs are stretched out before him, one arm thrown carelessly over the back of the sofa.
In his free hand, he’s flicking a switchblade open and closed with hypnotic regularity. Click-snap. Click-snap.
Kit looks up as I approach, those eerie golden-green eyes studying me with their usual curious intensity. “Good morning, plant lady,” he says pleasantly. “I trust you slept well?”
I don’t answer and I don’t sit down immediately either. Something feels different today. There’s a tension in the air, a restlessness. I notice it in the way the other men move around the room, in the rapid click-snap of Wrath’s knife, in the slight tightness around Kit’s eyes.
And suddenly, an idea flares to life in my mind. A terrible, reckless, possibly suicidal idea. But an idea nonetheless.
I’ve been watching them for days now. Observing the dynamics.
Kit is clearly in charge; his authority is absolute despite his casual manner.
But Wrath… Wrath is a powder keg. His rage feels barely contained at the best of times.
He hasn’t had any outbursts that I’ve witnessed since that first night, but every day he’s a little surlier.
Shorter-tempered. The knife rarely leaves his hands now, and the click-clack of it opening and shutting has just become background noise.
If I could use that volatility… if I could provoke him into an outburst big enough to create a distraction…
It’s madness. Pure, self-destructive madness. But I’m desperate, and desperation makes for terrible decision-making.
I place my hands on my hips and glare at Kit, who is looking at me with one brow raised and a curious expression on his face.
“I want clean clothes,” I announce, my voice louder and steadier than I expected. “And I want a shower. With soap and shampoo. I also want a toothbrush and toothpaste. And a hairbrush.”
Around the room, heads turn toward me. Kit raises an eyebrow, surprise flickering across his handsome face before it settles into mild amusement. “Is that so?”
“Yes,” I say, lifting my chin. “That is so. I’ve been wearing the same thing for days. It’s disgusting.” I gesture at my dress with distaste, then turn deliberately toward Wrath. “And I’m tired of oatmeal every morning. I’d appreciate something different for breakfast tomorrow.”
Wrath doesn’t respond verbally, but the click-snap of his knife speeds up. His eyes narrow as he looks at me. I force myself to hold his gaze for at least three seconds before turning back to Kit with a prim, “Thank you.”
My heart is racing and I almost feel lightheaded, but I keep my expression neutral. Around us, Kit’s men have gone still, watching, waiting to see how their leader will respond to this unexpected show of defiance.
Kit studies me for a long moment, head tilted slightly as if I’m a puzzle he’s trying to solve. Then, unexpectedly, he chuckles. “Well, well. Didn’t I say I wanted a bit more fire from you?” He shakes his head, still smiling. “Scorpion!”
Scorpion is a thin man with dark, close set eyes. It’s usually either him or Tank who are assigned to guard me. “Yeah, boss?”
Kit waves a hand in my direction. “Our guest would like some fresh clothes. What size are you, Kayla?”
I tell him, surprised he’s actually accommodating my demand.
“Get her some clothes in that size,” Kit instructs Scorpion. “And toiletries. Clear out the shower room for her tonight.”
Scorpion looks from Kit to me, then back to Kit. “You sure about this, boss?”
“Did I stutter?” Kit’s voice drops to that dangerous softness that makes everyone around him tense.
“No, boss. Consider it done.” Scorpion shoots me a look that promises retribution before striding out of the room.
Kit turns back to me, a smile playing on his lips. “Happy now?”
“I guess so,” I say, finally sitting down across from him. My legs feel like jelly from the adrenaline coursing through me.
Kit studies me for a long moment, his eyes narrowed slightly. “You’re up to something,” he says, so quietly that only I can hear.
I meet his gaze, hoping my face doesn’t betray me. “I just want clean clothes. Is that so strange?”
He doesn’t answer, just continues to watch me with those unnervingly perceptive eyes. Then he pulls out a deck of cards and begins to shuffle. “Gin rummy again today?”
As Kit begins to deal the cards, I ask the same question that I ask every day. “How long are you going to keep me here?” And just like every other day, Kit doesn’t answer.
But out of the corner of my eye, I notice Wrath tense on the couch, his knife stilling momentarily before resuming its click-snap rhythm. He doesn’t like me asking questions. Interesting.
“Why do you hate Roman so much?” I press, keeping my voice casual as I pick up my cards. “What happened between you two?”
Kit’s hands pause briefly before continuing. He doesn’t answer, but he’s suspicious now, sending me little glances as he tries to puzzle out what game I’m playing.
“Why are you all hiding out in this warehouse?” I continue arranging my cards, not looking at him directly. “What did you mean when you said Roman took everything from you?”
Click-snap. Click-snap. Click-snap. The rhythm of Wrath’s knife accelerates, each snap sounding more aggressive than the last. Kit’s jaw tightens almost imperceptibly, but he remains silent, dealing the next hand perhaps a bit more aggressively than is necessary.
I’m walking a dangerous line here, and I know it. One push too far, and this whole plan could end with me bleeding out on the concrete floor. But I’m committed now. I take a deep breath and ask the question I’ve been saving.
“How did you get that scar?”
The effect is immediate and explosive. There’s a roar from the couch, and suddenly Wrath is up, launching himself over the back of it like some feral creature. “IT’S VIPER’S FAULT!” he screams, his face contorted with rage. “ALL OF IT! IT’S ALL VIPER’S FAULT!”
Two men move to intercept him, but Wrath shoves them aside with shocking strength, sending one crashing into a stack of crates. Kit curses, his chair scraping back as he jumps to his feet, but he’s not fast enough.
Wrath barrels into our card table, sending it flying. Cards scatter everywhere as the table crashes over. I’m shoved hard in the chaos, my chair tipping backward. I hit the ground with a painful thud; the breath knocked from my lungs.
“LITTLE D!” Kit roars, throwing himself at Wrath as the younger man lunges toward me, knife gleaming. They collide with bone-jarring force, going down in a tangle of limbs. Kit’s hands clamp around Wrath’s wrist, struggling to control the knife. “DROP IT!”
Wrath thrashes beneath him, spitting curses, trying to wrench his arm free. Around them, Kit’s men have formed a loose circle, watching the fight with varying degrees of alarm. Not a single one is looking at me.
I crawl backward, away from the violent struggle, my heart pounding in my ears. Kit and Wrath roll across the floor, grappling for control of the knife, their uncannily similar features twisted with effort.
This is my chance. Maybe my only chance.
I inch toward the closest door, the one left slightly ajar when several men rushed in at the sound of the commotion. No one notices as I slip through the narrow opening, my movements careful and silent. Once in the hallway, I rise to my feet, my legs shaking with adrenaline.
Which way? Left leads deeper into the warehouse, to the rooms where the men sleep. Right leads… where? I’ve never been taken in that direction before. It must lead somewhere.
I choose right, moving quickly but quietly, trying to recall the mental map I’ve been building of this place. If I can just find an exit, a window, anything —
I’m suddenly aware that the sound of fighting behind me has ceased. There’s perhaps a minute of silence, then Kit’s voice, faint now but sharp:
“For fuck’s sake, was no one watching her?”
My blood runs cold. I abandon all pretense of stealth and start to run, my bare feet slapping against the concrete floor. Behind me, I hear the commotion of men mobilizing, doors being flung open, Kit barking orders. They know I’m gone. They’re coming.
I run faster, my lungs burning, my heart threatening to burst from my chest. Ahead, the corridor branches. Left or right? Right or left? I choose left, skidding around the corner, desperate for any sign of an exit.
I can hear them behind me now, boots pounding on concrete, voices calling to each other. They’re spreading out, searching methodically. Like hunters after their prey.
Which, I suppose, is exactly what I am.