Chapter Twenty-Two

Moonlight is streaming through the high window, making everything in the room bright and visible, but with an eerie darkness to it all at the same time. I wish it didn't.

Grinder is hanging by his wrists from a hook in the ceiling, his white T-shirt covered in his blood and his SOK cut in pieces by his feet. The bruises on his face appeared soon after a couple of men laid into him with bats, telling him it was payback for Preston—whoever that is. True to form, Grinder laughed through it, spitting blood at them at every opportunity, but it was torture to have to lie here beside Kincaid and watch.

Ropes are wrapped around my wrists, high above my head, restraining me against the bed, and another set are wrapped around my ankles and knees to keep them together. Kincaid is tied up in the same way, so we're both completely immobile, on our backs, unable to do a thing to help Grinder, who seems to be experiencing the brunt of the anger these men have for whatever reason.

I think he's either passed out or asleep right now, because his head is hanging and his swollen eyes are closed. I can still see his chest moving, so I know he's alive. Kincaid has been motionless beside me since we woke up here a few hours after trying to leave yesterday afternoon. All I remember is a sharp pain in my skull before we were here, with Grinder being beat on.

I'm not totally stupid, I know this is all my fault. Thinking things through didn't really cross my mind, though…

Okay, yeah, that was stupid.

If only I'd waited, researched way more instead of trying to be clever and go directly to the source. What kind of CEO speaks to randos off the street who turn up at their door to ask questions about pills? I should've tried to get a ticket to the convention. At least then it wouldn't have seemed odd for me to want to know things about it.

Future me is so much more prepared, and I stand by the fact that past me is a dick.

The actual reason these men took us is still a mystery, other than the Preston thing which makes no sense to me. I don't even know a Preston. However, the guy that cut up Grinder and Kincaid's cuts really hates the Sons of Khaos. They're probably supporters of the Toxic Rebels, considering we're in Stonebrook.

Shit, they got out of jail. Maybe this has something to do with those fuckers?

"Do you have to think so loudly?"

I guess Kincaid is awake.

"Sorry."

Luckily, the guys that took us haven't touched Kincaid or me yet. I'm not far enough along in my pregnancy to feel my little bean move, but I just know they're okay. I'm calling it my new mommy instinct. Other than knocking us out and tying us up, it's just been a whole lot of cursing in our direction. Grinder's the only one covered in blood and bruises… for now.

"Wakey wakey!" The door slams open and in walks a blonde all-American fuckboy. He's even wearing a fucking pale green sweater across his shoulders, tied in a neat little knot with the sleeves at his collar bone, with a Ralph Lauren polo shirt and beige slacks. What makes me smile, though, are the bruises on his face, the sling holding one arm raised, and the broken, swollen lip that looks real painful. "Oh, look. The big bad biker brought me some bitches to play with." He's got some balls for a beat-up dude.

"Why play with the bitches when you could have all this? Too much for ya, Bougie Boy?"

The loud bang from the door must've drawn Grinder back to the land of the living, because he's now grinning like a maniac, bloody teeth and all, thrusting his pelvis as best he can from his position and through what must be a lot of hurt.

"You're the one that pissed everywhere! Not so tough without your boyfriends." The fuckboy sneers at Grinder, but he doesn't make a move to get closer. Useless fucking cowardly ballbag. "Looks like you're traveling with some club sluts, this time. How do their pussies taste?"

He steps toward the bed, beside Kincaid and opposite the side of the room to where Grinder is tied to the ceiling, and runs his finger down Kincaid's cheek.

"Don't answer that, I'll find out for myself soon eno—oh no you don't." The sharp slap across Kincaid's cheek after she tried to bite his finger rings through the room. Which, in itself, is surreal as fuck with the teal-green patterned wallpaper. It's exactly like someone's bedroom, apart from the hooks on the ceiling that appear to have been there for years.

Two of the bodyguards with bats in their hands step into the room, flanking the blonde asshole and making him look tiny in comparison.

I swear, if he had dark hair and blue eyes, it'd be like looking at my brother; his expression is dark, evil, not a hint of humanity in his gaze, which is now directed toward me.

With his backup in tow, the ugly prick prowls around the bed to me, staying a safe distance away from Grinder.

That doesn't stop Grinder from trying to get to him, though. "Come on, Bougie Boy. Leave the girls alone and come play with a real man." He's pulling on the chain attached to the cuffs on his wrists, blowing kisses at the cowardly asshole.

Bougie Boy is a great nickname.

I think my experience with the Rebels over the last few years has made me immune to this crap. My fear levels are nowhere near as high as I know they should be. Back then, I felt helpless until I came up with my escape plan. Now, I have a lot more to lose, but knowing that is helping my thoughts stay strong. Determination can do a lot for a person.

"You're a pretty one. Not all marked up like the freak beside you. Look at all that thick, blonde hair." Bougie dick grips and sharply pulls my hair. It makes me wince, but other than that, I don't react. I know men like this. They thrive on reactions.

"Oh yeah. Pick on the fucking girls because you're too much of a fucking pussy to come near me. They're not in a position to fight back, so it's easy for you. Is it because your mommy didn't love you enough? You didn't get enough hugs from Daddy? Or was it too many hugs from Daddy, huh? Did you take it like a good little boy? Is your little prick too small to please anyone, so you have t—"

Grinder's rant is cut short by a swift punch to his gut from one of the two men in black. Then he laughs. "Oh, poor baby has to get his hired help to do his dirty work."

"Shut the fuck up!" Bougie Boy drops my head and turns. "I think you'd be better off in another room. I know some people who would very much like to spend some time alone in a room with you." He steps right up to Grinder, which seems like a stupid idea to me, even with his gangster version of the Men in Black beside him.

"Is one of those people you, Bougie Boy? You want some special Grinder time?" Before I have time to blink, Grinder jumps, wraps his legs around him, and squeezes tightly. It's a magical sight as the little prick begins squirming and squealing like the pig he is.

"Get him off me!" There's a struggle, then one of the men in black cracks his bat around Grinder's head, rendering him unconscious and slackening his hold.

Kincaid growls beside me, and I agree with the sentiment. With the damage to Grinder's body so far, I'm worried for him. If he doesn't get medical attention soon… I don't want to think about the consequences of that.

"Take him into another room. Tie him to the bed. I'm gonna call Alastair."

"Yes, Sir." The man with facial hair—which seems to be the only way to differentiate the two henchmen—pulls out a set of keys on his belt, attached by a long, retractable string, and undoes Grinder's cuffs.

The fall to the floor won't have helped whatever condition he's in. I can only hope he's as strong as he makes out and he'll be fine. We'll get out of this. We have to.

I'm not delusional, but I am hopeful.

"Karma must be on my side. You know why, girls?"

It's taking everything in me to hold back the responses I have for this man as Grinder is dragged from the room, and if I were still just me, I wouldn't bother. But I'm not just me anymore. I have a beautiful little passenger on board so I need to curb my anger and try to be smart about this.

It seems Kincaid is taking a similar route, staying just as silent beside me—as if I expected anything less.

"Well, your little boyfriend and his pals came to see me about some frigid bitch. Left me with a few presents. As you can see." The last part is spoken through gritted teeth, barely above a growled whisper, and he lifts the arm that's been hanging in the sling this whole time with a wince. "My dad had to hire security so it doesn't happen again. And, of course, when he visits this little shit-heap town, he needs to know he'll be safe in his own home."

I'm trying really hard to not roll my eyes at this guy's privileged, fuckboy life story.

"Would you believe it, though, when one of the stupid fucks rolls up outside my house for a second time with two needy bitches in tow. My guys saw the filthy logo on those jackets and informed me it was fucking Christmas. So here we are." He's moved around the bed again, and he leans down, his nose almost touching Kincaid's.

She remains still, almost frozen, but there's not an ounce of fear there.

"I bet you're a filthy bitch. What gift do I get from you?"

Kincaid's lips twitch, ever so slightly, right before she spits in his face and headbutts him. He rears back in pain, and in rushes the muscle again, bats high in the air, ready for a fight.

"Chain that fucking freak to the ceiling! The fucking cunt broke my nose again. I'll be back in a few hours. If my father calls, find out when his flight is."

He storms from the room, holding his nose, blood pouring from his palm and dripping over the nice cream carpet.

Goatee and Plain Face make quick work of untying Kincaid from the bed, and like freaking Jet Li, she jumps up, kicks one in the back of the knee and punches the other in the throat. Then, she throws herself off the bed, shoulder-first into Goatee, arms fully wrapped around him, and takes him to the floor. My heart rate picks up speed because I'm so fucking proud of her for this, but I'm also not in a position to help. And I really wanna help because Plain Face grabs her short blue hair and rips her head back, pulling her up by it.

A meaty fist lands hard against her cheek, and I hear a distinct crack before she crumples, passed out from the pain most likely. I've had a broken cheekbone before—thanks, Brick—and it's not pleasant in the slightest.

"She's a feisty one. Think the boss'll let us have a play before Alastair comes over?" Goatee is a lecherous prick.

"We could have a go now, while she's passed out." Ugh, Plain Face. I don't know why I thought he was better than that.

They both make hard work of getting Kincaid in a standing position with her arms above her head, shoving her wrists through the same chains Grinder was attached to.

"They're no fun when they're unconscious, man. I like it when they fight back. Look, hard as a fucking rock." Goatee grabs his crotch, and it's nowhere near as endearing as when Grinder or Boner do the same thing. If anything, I want to vomit.

"You're a pliant little thing, aren't you?" Plain Face looks to me as the click of the cuffs closing sounds through the room. Kincaid now looks like Grinder did earlier, minus the swollen face and blood everywhere. It seems these guys didn't want to damage her too much, even though she attacked them.

Goatee has a little cut on the outer corner of his eyebrow, with a thin line of blood trailing down the side of his face. I want to smile at the damage Kincaid caused, but, again, I won't.

If my time with the Rebels taught me anything, it's patience. There will always be a time to strike, I just need to keep my wits about me so I don't miss it.

I'm in survival mode.

And we will all survive this.