“Yeah.”
Fear she’s lying whirls inside me. “You were screaming and then you stopped. I need to know if they hurt you.” I need to know if I’ll be able to sleep again.
Silence on her end. Each quiet second that passes causes my body temperature to rise with the growing rage.
“Violet,” I urge, barely able to keep the anger from leaking out in my voice.
“The guy in the backseat backhanded me,” she says in a small voice, as if that confession is something she should be ashamed of.
I’m going to kill them. I’m going to kill every single one. “How bad?”
“Are you okay?” She attempts to drag the conversation in another direction because she knows me. Knows I’m on the verge of losing my mind.
“Violet.”
“He hit me and we’ve been kidnapped,” she snaps. “Isn’t that bad enough?”
No. They hurt her. No part of me is okay with that.
“Are you okay?” she asks again. “They hit you. I saw it.”
And I hit them back. “Yeah, I’m good.”
Violet’s entire body quakes in a small fit and the stream of air being pushed through her lips as she tries to control herself is audible. She’s killing me, and she needs to know she’s not alone. Not physically. Not mentally. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s not your fault. The club’s maybe, but not yours. This is what the Terror is, Chevy. This is why I walked away.”
This is the Riot’s fault, not the Terror’s, but I’m not in the mood to argue. “I’m sorry I didn’t protect you better at the car.”
“You did exactly what I wanted you to do.”
She’s referring to protecting Stone. Violet shakes again, and I edge closer to her, wishing I could comfort her more. “I promise I’ll protect you now. I won’t let them touch you again.”
“I know you’ll try.”
I can do more than try. I lean forward, fish for the lock pick I’d stuck in my leather belt and begin the task of freeing myself from the cuffs. Can’t remember the first time I picked a lock. Cyrus said I was breaking out of baby gates and jimmying safety latches before I was two.
“Can you do it?” she whispers, so quietly I barely hear her. She’s probably frightened someone’s listening. Won’t lie, I’m itchy wondering the same. The rest of this dark room seems empty, but I won’t feel good until it’s fully explored.
“Give me a few.” I work at the handcuffs. There’s something about how my mind ticks and how my fingers move with the puzzle. The way I can hear the metal shifting. The gentle vibrations a lock gives right as it’s about to pop.
And it does pop and a much-needed adrenaline rush floods my veins. I slip off the cuffs, careful when setting them down not to create noise, then gently move my fingers until I find Violet. I make contact with her knee first, and she flinches as if that caused her pain.
Damn bastards. I skim up her leg, up her side, her arm, then to her face.
Material is wrapped around her head. I lift it off her eyes, then press on her shoulder for her to angle forward. She does, and with steady hands, I pick the lock, then set her handcuffs on the floor.
Violet’s hand catches mine and she squeezes. I thread our fingers together, lower my head and nuzzle her hair until I find her ear. Memories of doing this hundreds of times flash in my mind, but each of those times was a moment to be cherished. This—this is comfort, but it’s also survival.
“Stay here,” I whisper into her ear. “I’m going to move around the room, make sure we’re alone. See if I can feel a way to get out.”
Violet reaches up, her fingers caressing my cheek, and a pleasing shiver runs through me when her lips brush against my ear as she speaks. We haven’t been this close in months. Not even in the last few weeks of our relationship. “Let me help.”
“I want to make sure we’re alone. I need you to stay still and silent. Two of us moving around won’t help.”
She sags, resting her forehead against my temple. Can’t understand the chaos inside me. Can’t give names to the swirling emotions, but the one thing I do comprehend is the instinct to survive, the instinct to protect her. The need to gather Violet in my arms and carry her out. Yeah, I gave in earlier, but they’ll have to take me down before they reach her again.
I bunch her hair in my hand, kiss her forehead, then pull away.
There’s a buzzing under my skin as my fingertips slowly inch their way across the wall. A sense that I’m being watched. That the hourglass has been tipped and I’m running out of time. My fingers slide up and down the concrete, searching for a window, a tool, anything I can use to defend us or for a way out. With each centimeter searched, any hope I had of busting out evolves into desperation.
My heart stalls when my fingertips collide with cloth. I press and beneath it find something solid. It’s barely above my height and I run my hands along the length, then width. Excitement grows within me. It’s a window. It’s a way out.
I yank at the fabric and it tears as if nailed in, and the more I pull, the more of it gathers into my hands and falls to the floor. A tiny ray of light leaks from a crevice. Between me and freedom are wooden shutters.
A simple latch lock. I flip it, draw the shutters open, dim light floods the room and I curse as I lower my head. Bars. There’re fucking bars on the window. I grab hold of them and shake, but there’s no give. We’re stuck. Fucking stuck, and when I rise up on my toes, all I see are bushes.