5. Trapped

FIVE

TRAPPED

GENEVIEVE

I remember a crash.

I remember a scream.

I remember thinking I was dead, and hoping that Damien doesn’t blame himself for his wayward sister dying on the back of Sinner’s motorcycle—or that he doesn’t use that reality to put his hard-won truce in jeopardy, either.

I don’t know all of the details. Just that, for years, the Dragonflies and the Sinners Syndicate were at odds, close to coming to blows and heading toward all-out war, until my brother somehow managed to convince the Devil of Springfield to agree to a truce. The Dragonflies would continue running the drug trade and our counterfeiting ring, the Sinners would get their guns, their girls, and the gambling at their private casino, tucked away in the back room of the Playground. At the same time, both gangs would work together if necessary, the same way Damien and Devil met up to discuss how to take down Jimmy Winter before the white-haired freak got killed going up against my brother.

As much as I’m sure Dame prefers to think otherwise, I’m not that naive. I know that Jimmy Winter isn’t the only threat to the Family. When he died two weeks ago, Damien expected repercussions.

He expected them.

My mistake was in forgetting that, if someone really wanted to hurt Damien, I was the perfect target. Well, me or Savannah, but Savannah went ahead and changed up her style before dying her hair from a rich black color to a mahogany shade that suited her much better. Me? I thought that the helmet Cross gave me would be enough to hide my identity, and whether it did or didn’t, one thing’s for sure: my head is aching, my body feels like I’ve been hit by a fucking truck, my leg is on fire, but I’m alive . Considering my last memories consist of that scream and a horrifying crash, the helmet probably is to thank for that.

I’m alive—and when I try to make sense of my state and my garbled memories, I’m shocked that I am.

I was riding with Cross when we were sideswiped. He lost control of his motorcycle, we hit the asphalt. And then…

And then…

“Genevieve?”

Cross?

I… I know that voice. It’s a struggle to open my eyes when my eyelids seem to weigh a hundred pounds each, but the amount of concern he slips into the three syllables of my name he whispered… I swallow, whimpering when I realize how dry my mouth is, and force my eyes open a crack.

The second I do, I wince and I recoil.

“Genevieve!”

It’s more of a strangled shout, like he’s trying to be quiet for some reason.

I shake my head, not ready to speak just yet.

The light… it’s so damn bright. It sends a shooting sensation, stabbing straight through to my brain, and I have to flutter my eyelids in a vain attempt to get used to it. As my senses start to come online again, I realize I’m sprawled out on my back, something bumpy and uncomfortable beneath me. I don’t like it. I feel super vulnerable all of a sudden, and I struggle to pull myself into a sitting position before something hard and craggy is behind me.

I quirk open one eye when I can, then the next. It’s still super bright, but I can manage, and when I get my first glimpse of where I am, I almost wish I couldn’t.

It’s not familiar, as in I have no fucking idea where I am, but the slate grey cinderblock walls are the staples of too many basements I’ve seen. We’re surrounded by three of them, with the fourth wall a glass wall that reveals a hallway made up of, you guessed it, more cinderblock walls and scorchingly bright fluorescent lights.

In one corner, there’s an open toilet , right next to a sink mounted to the cinderblock, a metal pipe beneath it disappearing in the only break in the wall I can find.

In the other?

There’s Cross.

One he sees I’m up, he surges toward me. I notice his leather jacket he was wearing earlier is gone, and except for a blossoming bruise along his jaw where the helmet must’ve smashed into his face on impact, he seems no worse for the wear after having been through a motorcycle crash.

He reaches the cot—because, holy shit, I’m sitting on a thin cot with a scratchy dark brown blanket on it—before dropping one knee on top of it, holding his arms out to me.

“Genevieve.”

Cross.

I clutch his closest arm, pulling him onto the cot and nearly flopping into his lap in my panic to get close to him. I hate that I’m the epitome of a damsel in distress, but while he looks deceptively calm, my heart feels like it’s about to beat its way out of my chest.

Digging my nails into his tatted arm, I rasp out, “What’s going on? Where are we? Are you okay?”

He purses his lips, murmuring a hush under his breath. “There are cameras,” he adds, lips thinned now. “Someone’s watching. They could be listening.”

Oh, God.

I didn’t notice. How did I not notice them? Though that makes sense why Cross was standing in the far corner. Directly beneath one of the two cameras pointing down on the cot, it’s probably one of the two spots that might possibly be out of the camera’s range.

On the plus side, that means the toilet might not be caught on camera. But that means I’m admitting that someone tossed me into a room smaller than my walk-in closet at home, and they expect me to use that toilet at some point.

No. I don’t know what’s going on, but I don’t care.

I have to get out of here.

“Where’s my phone?” Stupid question, but it’s the first thing that pops in my mind. I want out of here and my instinct is to call my brother or Christopher… only my purse is gone. Cross’s jacket is gone. So is my sweater. I’m in the dress and shoes I was wearing earlier, Cross is in his t-shirt and jeans and boots, and that’s about all.

He shakes his head. “They rolled us, butterfly. My phone and wallet are gone, too.”

That’s fine. Fine . We’ll get out of here, then worry about finding some good samaritan to lend us their phones. Wait. Do I know Damien’s number? Shit. He told me that, when he was a kid, they didn’t have cell phones like we did when I was one. He knows the phone numbers by heart of everyone he’s in constant contact with, but me?

I think there’s a six in it. Maybe a four?

Fuck .

That’s fine. I’ll walk. I have my shoes. I just have to make it to the East End of Springfield, and there’s bound to be a Dragonfly who’ll trip over themselves to deliver me to my brother?—

“Not like it matters,” Cross adds. “I tried busting down the door. It looks like glass, but that shit won’t break.”

What? No. Glass breaks. Everyone knows that. Glass breaks, and I’m not sure what he tried, but I’m desperate.

I get up.

“I’m gonna try. I’m a ballerina, right? A dancer. Maybe… maybe I can do it.”

I flex my right leg, cursing when pain radiates up it.

“Genevieve,” he hisses out on a breath at the same time as I notice the red marks covering the entire side of my leg. “Your leg.”

Well, that explains the burning sensation. “Road rash,” I grit out once the pain subsides enough that I can. “Must’ve been when I hit the ground.”

A muscle ticks in his cheek. “I’m so fucking sorry. I?—”

Nope. I hold up my hand. “Unless you want to confess that the last six weeks have been some kind of long con, that you knew who I was from the beginning, and that you’re working with one of my brother’s enemies to trap me down here, I don’t want to hear it.”

Cross frowns. “Butterfly? How hard did you hit your head in the crash?”

I exhale. Until his visibly confused reaction, I wasn’t sure if there was a grain of truth in my wild accusation. I mean, technically that would explain a lot of things. His insistence that we keep our relationship casual, only friends, while also being there whenever I need him. It could be that Cross is a good guy who doesn’t want to take advantage of me, or he could be a villain hiding in plain sight.

I want so badly to believe that he’s on my side, but after tonight…

I shake my head. “My head’s fine. My leg hurts like a bitch, but unless it gets infected, it’ll heal.”

“Unless you break it by kicking that thick glass door.”

True, but it’s worth the risk?—

—and I believe that up until the moment I rear back with my left leg and mule kick the glass and absolutely nothing happens except I feel the impact of the kick as a painful vibration that reaches all the way up to my hip.

Cross is smart enough not to say ‘I told you so’, or to point out that anyone on the other side of the camera would’ve probably gotten a kick out of seeing my failed one. He just stands there patiently, waiting for me to come to the same conclusion he must have while I was still unconscious.

“We’re stuck here,” I say after a moment.

“Yes.”

Why isn’t he freaking out? He can’t have anything to do with this…. right? “You don’t get it, Cross. We’re trapped .”

“I know, butterfly.”

Then why doesn’t he care ? If he’s not involved, then he’s an innocent bystander, because?—

“Cross… this is all my fault.”

Okay. My words coupled with my rising panic, that definitely shakes him up a little. Losing that annoyingly calm look on his face, he frowns. “What?”

“My fault,” I repeat. “Whoever did this… they had to be targeting me.”

His expression goes back to that deceptively calm one from before. Right. He already guessed that, didn’t he?

A hysterical bubble rises up in my throat. “What do they want with me? What are they going to do?”

“It doesn’t matter.” His eyes flash. “They can’t touch you. I’ll make sure of it. I’ll protect you.”

“Cross, I?—”

He cradles my cheeks. “Listen to me, butterfly. Can you do that?”

Over the roar in my head? Over the realization that this is happening? That someone followed us, that they purposely ran us off the road, did something to use to knock us out so that they could lock me and Cross in this cage ?

But if this is my fault like I expect it is, then Cross is an innocent bystander. He’s already tried to break out himself, and when he figured out he couldn’t—and neither could I—his first instinct is to promise that he’ll protect me.

Listen to him? I’ll try. I nod, forcing myself to focus on Cross’s face. The slope of his nose. The sharp edge of his jawline. His fiercely dark eyes.

I shudder out a breath.

He strokes the underside of my jaw. “Okay. We have running water. That means we can piss if we have to, and we have something to drink. That gives us a couple of days at left to figure out what the fuck is going on. That’s all we need. You know why?”

I haven’t a clue. “No,” I whisper.

Cross bows his head, pressing his forehead against mine. I’m pretty sure he does it because he’s trying to keep anyone from seeing his lips move or reading them if they can, but I need the connection at this moment.

I need him .

“You’re Genevieve fucking Libellula. If there’s one thing I know for sure, no matter why they targeted us, it’s that your brother will come for you.”

“Damien will come for me,” I whisper back.

“That’s right. I’m a Sinner. My guys won’t leave me here to rot, either. They’ll find us. Doesn’t matter that they can’t track us through microchips or any shit like that. I know Tanner. If they were dumb enough to bring out phones anywhere near this place, he’ll find us. We just have to make it until then.”

I nod.

We can do this.

Right?