by Wilde, Kati
Not easy to remove. But removable.
I spend the next hour looking for something to use on those screws before giving up. Obviously they don’t leave anything in here that’s pointy and metal. I’m ripping my fingernails to shreds, trying to get the screws to twist even a little when I hear a key scraping into the lock.
Shit.
Hurriedly I get my ass out of the bathroom. The sound of my door unlocking isn’t as scary as it was in the stables. But I don’t want anyone to know what I’m doing. I don’t think they’d hurt me. They’d probably make sure the vent was no longer an option, though.
Until Blowback came today to ask questions, the only visitors I’ve had were Duke and Bull, who check in on me and bring me food. Not that they told me their names. I had to read their vests.
But this has been different from the stables, too. Though some of the fighters gave me shit—some literally—most were okay. Some were friendly.
No one is friendly here. And I can’t expect them to be. In the stables, we were all in the crap together.
Here, I’m the girl who helped kidnap Stone.
But this time...it’s Stone who comes in.
He shoulders open the door, carrying in a few bags and a canvas duffle. I stand stock still in the middle of the cabin, with a storm of emotions building into a hurricane in my chest. The urge to run to him, to jump into his arms as if greeting a long lost friend. The surge of heat over my skin as I remember the last discussion we had. Maybe I’ll fuck the answers out of you. And sheer relief, because it’s been four days and no one has told me what he’s doing or where he’s been, even though I knew that he might be going after the Iron Blood.
But he looks...okay. Most of his injuries from the Cage have healed, no matter how much he wanted to keep them. That’s just what injuries do. They heal.
On the outside, at least.
And on the outside, he’s dressed like the first night I saw him. Casually, simply. Jeans, boots. A thick faded hoodie instead of a thick worn flannel. No vest, though. Maybe because he didn’t find it.
Or maybe because he doesn’t intend to wear anything for very long.
He turns and locks the deadbolt again. Tucks the key into his right pocket. Not leaving again right away. With my breath coming unsteady and fast, I glance at his bags. One is a plain paper sack the size of a grocery bag and the other looks like takeout.
But that duffle suggests something more.
I swallow hard. “If those are clothes, it looks like you’re moving in.”
“Maybe for a few days.” His voice is low and gravelly, his eyes skimming me from head to toes, as if taking in the messy bedhead, a face without makeup, and the giant T-shirt that replaced my filthy nurse’s uniform and serves as my only covering. “That depends on you.”
“Does it?”
Slowly he nods. “And whether I need to use what’s in the fun bag.”
“Which one’s the fun bag?”
He reaches into the paper sack…and pulls out a ball gag. Still in the clamshell container. As if purchased just for me.
I’ll make you pay—but I’ll also make you talk. I’ll have you begging to talk.
There’s other stuff in there, too, though I can’t see what. Just the impressions of more containers against the sides of the sack.
Heart thundering, my gaze flies to his again. I clasp my fingers together to hide their nervous shaking. “I hate to point out the obvious, but if you use that gag on me, I won’t be talking very much.”
And he grins. Oh my god. Just turns on that crooked, laughing smile that he wore so often before Victor showed him the video of his sister. My stomach clenches, longing tearing through my veins.
I’ve missed that smile. So much. And didn’t even realize it until this moment, when that grin warms and opens everything within me.
He drops the ball gag back into the sack, then heads over to the table and sets down the takeout. “But like I said, that depends on you. So let’s talk a while first—and share something that we missed.”
That storm of emotions swirls through me again as I watch him pull out containers of turkey, mashed potatoes, stuffing. Thanksgiving dinner. Not just sharing a meal but sharing a missed holiday.
“I couldn’t escape before that night,” I blurt out, my chest aching. “I had the scalpel but I also knew that I’d only have one chance. And that I’d have to kill the guard. But I didn’t even know if I could follow through. The whole time that I was preparing myself to get up there and do it, I almost kept puking. That’s why I waited. Because I didn’t know if I could kill someone. And I was afraid of how it would affect me after. So I kept hoping for some other option.”
His steady gaze is on me through that rushed speech. “How it would affect you after...like how it affected me?”
“No,” I tell him, my throat raw. “I knew it wouldn’t be that bad. You had to kill a friend. I would only be killing a guard I knew. But…every other plan had fallen through. Like the one with Crash. I wouldn’t have needed to kill anyone at all—just make them sick on laxatives so they’d get out of the control booth and I could free everyone. But that didn’t work. So I was afraid of failing again.”
He regards me quietly. Then nods. “All right. But tell me—are you planning to escape again? Maybe watched to see where I put my key? Maybe thinking of bashing me over the head and grabbing it?”
“If I can,” I tell him. “Because I’m tired of being locked up.”
“Fair enough. And if you get past me, you’re free to go.”
I stare at him. “Really?”
“Sure. If I get bashed over the head by a girl who weighs in at maybe a hundred and ten pounds soaking wet, I deserve to be the laughingstock of this club.” He pulls out a chair. “Now, sit.”
Oh god. I shouldn’t really laugh about whether or not he’ll free me when he’s the reason I’m imprisoned. Biting my lip against a smile, I sit and grab a paper plate. “Shouldn’t you be sharing this with your family, instead? I can’t imagine they celebrated while you were gone.”
And in that respect, I was luckier than he was. Because it wasn’t a dinner, but I did get to spend Thanksgiving with my family. Not that it was a good holiday—it was the same day that Tusk attacked me and broke Matt’s arm. But I spent a lot of time with Matt that day and the next.
“They didn’t.” He scoops out a load of potatoes. “But if I sat down with them, that wouldn’t be celebrating the holiday, either. Instead they’d either spend the whole damn time asking how I was, or spend the whole damn time not asking how I was but still wondering. And I’d spend the time insisting that I was all right. So instead I’ll spend the time with someone who doesn’t need to ask, and who I don’t need to lie to.”
Because he’s not all right. Hesitantly, I say, “Are they okay? Your sister and your family? I know it’s not right for me to ask but...I’d like to know.”
His jaw clenches. “So you can share some guilt, too?”
My throat tightens and I nod.
“Well, take a load off. Because they’re fine.”
“Like you are fine? Or for real?”
His mouth quirks. “For real. Now eat your fucking meal.”
“Okay.” But I don’t go for the potatoes, though they look buttery and delicious. I drag the pumpkin pie in front of my plate, cut out a slice, then see the look he gives me. “If I’ve learned anything these past months, it’s not to wait around for the good stuff. So I’m eating dessert first.”
That grin flashes again. “Then cut me a slice, too.”
I do, carefully scooping the pie out while he shakes a can of whipped cream.
He waits for me to dig in, lets me enjoy a few bites before asking, “Who made the meals in the stables?”
I shrug, because I truly don’t know. “I assumed it was someone up at the farmhouse, because the guards delivered the trays to the stables every day—and who is going to make daily deliveries to the middle of nowhere?”
; “So maybe one of the militia? Or the Iron Blood?”
“Or someone they hired specifically for that purpose. Planning and cooking that many meals had to be almost a full time job. Whoever it was, I never saw them or talked to them.”
He nods, eyeing me speculatively. Maybe surprised that I answered at all.
But in the past four days, I’ve thought a lot about this—about how much I’ll say. There’s some things I can’t give to them. Like Papa or the doc. Not without risking Matt. But the other stuff? I don’t see how it would hurt. And if I give them as much as I can, maybe they’ll let me go earlier.
Because four days have already passed. And I’m not panicking about the time yet, because either one of two things has happened: after the raid, Papa decided to destroy everything connected to him and that might draw the attention of the authorities. In that case, Matt’s already dead. But I can’t think that. So I have to believe in the second scenario—that Papa won’t tell Matt what happened at the stables at all. Matt’s supposed to be in the clinic for a few weeks. So he’d stay quiet there. After that, Papa might move him to another stable, if there is one. Or sell him to another stable boss.
Right now, though, I kind of know where Matt is. And I’ll know for a few weeks.
But why doesn’t Stone already know about the meals?
I finish my pie and consider having another slice before reaching for the stuffing. “I know your friends killed the three guards in our barn…but did they kill all of the guards at the compound?”
“Yeah.”
“So there’s no one left to ask?”
“Unless we find Victor. What do you know about him?”
“Nothing. Truthfully,” I say when he eyes me in that speculative way again. “He didn’t give anything away.”
He nods. “I believe that.”
“But he recognized your Force Recon tattoo.”
“Did he?”
I nod. “When we watched the video of you. When…Strawman showed it to us.”
Who isn’t the same man as his friend. I’m still trying to accept how that one fact could have changed everything for Stone…and for me.
“Where’d you watch the video at?”
“I don’t know. I don’t even know which town we were in. It was a yellow house with a pink sink and bathtub.”
“Maybe I can get that out of Strawman.”
I snort. “The same way you’d get it out of me?”
He gives me a slow, slow smile that curls heat through my stomach. Oh god. Maybe I shouldn’t remind him.
Or maybe I should. Because I do owe him.
Though I don’t know why I’m so okay with the idea of him collecting.
Heart pounding, I ask him, “What about the Iron Blood? Were you able to get anything?”
He shakes his head. “They’re on lockdown. So you’re all I’ve got.”
“But I don’t have much to give.”
“No description of Papa at all?”
Torn, I swirl my fork through my potatoes. But this is just like everything else. I can give him a little. And maybe he’ll let me go.
My chest lifts on a deep breath. “Well…he looks rich.”
“Rich?” A laugh rumbles from him. “How do rich people look?”
“He’s got rich-people hair.” When his laughter deepens, I lift my hands helplessly. “You know what I mean, right? I’m not around a lot of rich people, but all the older men cut their hair the same way. Like presidents do.”
“I know what you mean,” he agrees, amusement deepening his voice. “What color?”
“He was white. But tanned.”
“And his hair?”
“Dark brown with some silver in it.”
“So fifty, maybe sixty years old?” When I agree, he asks, “Build?”
“Healthy. Tall. Not as tall as you. Maybe six feet. And although he was in shape, not big and muscular. Not like you. More like he plays tennis. Or spends a lot of time on a yacht.”
Stone grins. “Like a rich person.”
He’s teasing me. I flush, but I’m laughing, too, as I nod and take a small bite of potatoes.
Then my laughter dies when he says, “And the doctor?”
Fear twists in my belly. I don’t dare lie. Other fighters saw him, too. So I won’t give Stone anything that he doesn’t already have if I describe him.
“He’s just…regular. Receding hairline and a”—I sweep my hand over my head to illustrate a combover. “Kind of a round face, but otherwise just average in every way. Just like your average neighborhood doctor. His manner, too. Mostly pleasant and kind and helpful.”
“Helpful, how?”
“Well, like…” I push my sleeve up to my shoulder, show him the matchstick-sized implant under the skin of my upper arm. “It’s birth control. He inserted it when I arrived at the stables, because he knew that eventually…”
I’d be raped. Or used as a prize or bait. Or forced to give a reward.
Stone’s gaze hardens. “So you were grateful to him?”
“I was,” I admit. “I knew he wouldn’t stop any of it—if Tusk came after me, he wouldn’t have stepped in front of him, just cleaned me up afterwards—but it was like he tried to make the things we couldn’t avoid easier for us. And I figured he was there for the same reason as everyone else, that Papa threatened him somehow. But he never said anything personal, if that’s what you’re wondering.”
“I’m more interested in his skill set. Did it seem like he specialized in anything?”
I’ve been thinking hard about this, too. Trying to figure out what kind of private clinic he might have. But my answer is truthful. “Nothing that stood out. He seemed like a general practitioner, to me.”
“If we downloaded photos of licensed doctors in that area, could you pick him out?”
Excitement crackles through my stomach. Because I could. “Probably.” Then conceal what I find until I go to the police. Or if I get to the cops first, suggest the same thing. “Though I don’t even know what area we were in.”
“Nevada. North of Reno.” He unzips his hoodie and shrugs out of it. Because it is warm in here. Since I’m only wearing this shirt, I’ve got the heat up high. But it’s even warmer now. He’s wearing a T-shirt underneath, the cotton stretched across his broad shoulders and clinging to every heavy muscle. “That where you’re from?”
Not even close. I shake my head, biting my lip and setting down my fork. “I really don’t have any more to tell you. Can’t you just let me go?”
“I could. But here’s the problem.” Expression hard, he leans back in his chair. “My brother Blowback came in to talk to you earlier, yeah?”
“Yes.”
“And he’s real good at digging up information. So he found out that everything you said to him was a lie. Your name, your birthday, everything. Christina Miller doesn’t exist. You made it all up.”
My heart rate spikes. “I didn’t. Just because I’m not active on Facebook or online doesn’t mean I don’t exist—”
“I’m not talking about Facebook. I’m talking about public records—and some not-so-public records. Every damn thing you said.” A muscle works in his jaw as he stares at me. “So I’ve got to wonder if everything you just said to me now is a lie, too.”
It wasn’t. “It was the truth. It was all the truth.”
“Maybe.” His eyes narrow. “But if what you said is true, then I think what you’re lying about now is claiming that was all you know.”
My throat closes up. And I just stare at him. Because there’s nothing left to do.
He reaches for the whipped cream, squirts a mound onto another piece of pie. “How about we start this again. What’s your name?”
“Christina—”
“No.” He cuts me off almost gently, setting the can aside, leaning in with his gaze searching my face. “You think I don’t get it? You were locked up. Now you’re locked up again. But the difference between here and there is that the second you get out
of here, Papa will get you. And maybe you’re thinking that you can run to the cops, but that’s a real bad idea, because a man like Papa will have dirty cops in his pocket.”
I know he does. That’s why I have to go to Matt’s bosses. But I can’t say that.
“But we’ll protect you here,” he says, his voice strong and steady, his gaze unwavering. “You give us Papa, and we’ll take him out. After that, you’ll be safe anywhere you go.”
Oh god. I believe him. And I would do what he said in a heartbeat…if Matt wasn’t still out there. If I didn’t think that Stone and everyone in his club would put a bullet in a member of the Eighty-Eight if they came across him. Even then, Matt is probably safer being known as a Henchman than known as a cop.
My voice is nothing but a strained whisper. “I just don’t have anything more to give you.”
“Maybe you don’t think you do.” Still gentle, he asks, “Where’d they grab you?”
“Las Vegas,” I tell him truthfully.
“Why were you there? Visiting or working?”
“I…” Oh my god. I don’t have a story for this. Because the only people who might have looked at Christina Miller knew exactly how I’d been taken. And they never cared why I was there. But this should be simple. Why do people go to Vegas? “I was with a bachelorette party.”
“Were they nabbed, too? Is that why you fell in line—Papa threatened your friends?”
“No. It was…just me.”
“So there will be a missing person’s report out on you. In Las Vegas, about three months ago.”
Oh my god. Would there be?
But…no. Who would have reported me missing? Who knew I was in Vegas? Only Matt.
So if Stone wants to search down that road… “Maybe,” I tell him.
“Only maybe?” His eyebrows arch. “Nice friends you have there, not caring that you disappeared.”
Shit. “Yeah, they’re all bitches.”
“And you’re lying to me again.”
“No—”
“Why, though? To save your own skin? You’d be better off putting yourself in my hands than in Papa’s.” His eyes narrow. “Are you protecting someone? A friend? Someone at home? We’ll protect them, too.”