The woman with the long blonde hair whispered, “Please… This can’t be happening. What do you want?”
Kill bared his teeth, wrapping his arms tighter around his middle. It projected as aggression but I saw the whiteness of blood loss creeping up his jaw.
“Told you; not my fault if you didn’t listen. And you won’t see me again after tonight.” Straightening his shoulders, he growled, “Mo, Grasshopper, get them bunkered for the night. I trust you’ll ship them out to their destinations tomorrow? I don’t have time to go over it with you.”
You don’t have time because you’re bleeding out.
The sandy-blond-haired man nodded. “Got the deets. Don’t worry about a thing.”
“Good,” Kill sighed.
A couple of women sniffed, tears trailing their cheeks. I quickly scanned our sad group. One pretty Asian girl, two blondes, one redhead, and one brunette. We were all similar in height, build, and curves.
We’d been chosen.
Hand-picked for whatever they meant to do with us.
A flutter of fear cut through my steadfastness.
Green eyes landed on mine.
The feeling of history, connection, and rebellion came again, thick and fast in our locked gaze. He suddenly stumbled to the left, shaking his head, eyes wide with amazement that his body disobeyed his order to stand.
I wasn’t amazed. I was stupefied he was still upright, let alone leading and possessing the respect of the men behind him.
Snapping his fingers, Kill growled, “I’m leaving. I’ll take the sixth trade with me until I can find a buyer. Don’t trust the brothers after what happened tonight.”
Mo, the sandy-blond-haired man, frowned. “Is that wise? I mean—”
“It’s very fucking wise.” Stalking forward, Kill beelined for me.
I took a step backward, but it didn’t do me any good. Grabbing my elbow, he snarled over his shoulder. “Give me something to dress her in.”
Immediately, a large black T-shirt with the words VENGEANCE IS SWEET across the front sailed from the bag in Grasshopper’s—the black-mohawked biker—hand.
“Put this on.” Kill balled it up, wedging it into my stomach.
With shaking hands, I shook the T-shirt till it faced the right way and pulled it over my head. It fit me like a dress, skimming my thighs.
Kill nodded. “It’s not perfect, but it’ll do.”
Grabbing my wrist, he jerked me toward the corridor. “I’ll call you guys tomorrow. Deal with this shit.”
Without another word, he yanked me to the garage and an awaiting black Triumph. Throwing his leg over the side, he tugged me close. “Get on.”
“I don’t like motorcycles.”
The thought came from nowhere. Why don’t I like motorcycles? Same reason I don’t like motorcycle clubs… the men who exist in this world.
It didn’t make sense. If I’d had anything to do with clubs and violence, I would remember—surely? After all, I remembered my profession. I wouldn’t have gone into healing animals if I’d come from an environment where women were subservient and more stay-at-home types.
Something about that thought didn’t sit right.
The itch in my brain wouldn’t give up, switching from a gentle annoyance to a full-on scratch-fest.
“This isn’t a negotiation. Get the fuck on.” Kill twisted and hoisted me onto his bike. His hands were large, encasing my waist easily. Once again the cognizant awareness and intensity shot through my blood.
The moment I sat behind him, he let me go, hissing in pain.
“You’re hurt,” I muttered.
He shook his head. “Superficial. Don’t think I’m gonna die and you’ll be free—you’ll be waiting a long time for that to happen.”
My stomach grappled with my heart at the thought of him dying. If he died, answers died with him. But if he dies, you’re free.
The thought of freedom didn’t excite me nearly as much as figuring out the riddle of my amnesiac brain.
“You need to see a doctor.”
You need to stay alive long enough for me to get the truth.
His leather jacket creaked softly as the muscles in his back tensed. “Mind your own business.”
Our connection is my business.
Grabbing the handlebars, he pressed a button that opened a small section of the large garage roller door. Freshness from the night outside flurried in, obscuring the scent of leather and gasoline.
“If you want to stay on, you better grab hold.”
The metaphor of his words didn’t escape me.
If I wanted to move forward in this strange, scary existence, I had to put my faith in the man who held my life in his roguish hands. And if I didn’t, I’d fall.
I have nothing left to lose.
With a sure heart, I wrapped my arms around his considerable bulk.
His muscles bunched beneath my hold and once again awareness and twisted desire sprang into perception.
We didn’t say a word.
We didn’t have to.
Our bodies hummed with more depth than words ever could.
With a shiver and wrench of his wrist, my nightmare and kidnapper fed fuel to his mechanical beast, and we shot forward into the crisp silence of early morning.
Chapter Three
Pain.
I’d known all facets. Endured physical, emotional, and spiritual agony. The wound in my shoulder throbbed like hellfire, but it was nothing to the confusion inside. What the fuck was I doing bringing this liar back to my home?
And why did my heart ache in the worst pain imaginable?
—Kill
The third journey in just a few hours stopped abruptly as Arthur Killian eased on the throttle, coming to a rest in front of huge black gates. Straddling the bike, his large legs kept us from tipping over as he reached into a fake rock and punched in a code.
Instantly the gate split in two, rolling into the thick undergrowth ringing the large stone wall. To have a property like this right on the coastline must cost a fortune.
Gripping his leather cut, I asked, “Where are we?”
“My home.”
Not quite the detailed answer I was hoping for.
Where are we in the world?
Why couldn’t I remember my nationality or where I lived until a few hours ago?
Why did I know that the flowers in my tattoo were forget-me-nots, but not my name? I wasn’t completely clueless—I knew how to talk and interact—I remembered the basics of human life, but my brain was selective, hiding everything that I wanted to know.
Kill teased the acceleration, gliding us from street to stone driveway. He drove to the right of the whitewashed and pillared mansion.
Uplights cast the property in a warm glow, masking the sterile white and making it seem like a cozy cream. There were immaculate flower beds set like regimented soldiers beneath the many windowsills, and the front portico soared upward, keeping the double front door dry from temperamental weather.
Another garage door rolled up. Automatic lighting switched on as we drove with a loud rumble into the large space. Scanning the area, I quickly noted it didn’t look lived-in. There were no overflowing cupboards of personal belongings or Ping-Pong tables or even old exercise equipment. The only thing that the garage housed was a black sports car and now the black Triumph we’d arrived on.
My ears rang as Kill cut the thundering engine and kicked down the stand. He looked over his shoulder. “Get off.”
I tugged his jacket harder. “I don’t want to. Tell me why you brought me here.”
Tell me how I know you.
“I’m not telling you jack shit unless you obey. What part of what I said at the compound didn’t you understand?”
“Most of it.”
He sucked in a breath, an arm lassoing around his bleeding chest. “You’re either the stupidest person I’ve ever met, or you’re broken in some way.”
I gasped. “Broken? What makes you say that?”
I thought the same thing. Where was the fear? The shock? The horror?
“You’re looking right into my eyes. You’re refusing to get off my bike, and you don’t seem to understand what’s going on here.”
I no longer wanted to be washed away by circumstances I didn’t understand. It was time to push—to dig for clues.
“What is going on? Why did you seem to know me… back there?”
His body went rock hard with rage. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what?” I knew what he meant, but something inside made me rebel. I couldn’t get a grip on how drastically my life had changed—or at least I thought it’d changed…
I hated being in the dark. I hated having memories taunting me while staring into the eyes of a killer. I wanted to know.
He growled under his breath, swiping his free hand over his face. The sheen of pain hadn’t diminished; if anything it’d become worse.
“Get. Off. My. Bike,” he whispered. The sharp control in his tone sent a smattering of warning down my back.
Carefully, I obeyed. Swinging my leg over, I hated how naked I was beneath the black T-shirt, and backed away the moment my feet touched concrete. At least it wasn’t cold tonight. The mugginess of humidity lived in the porous floor, warming my toes.
Kill climbed off his motorcycle, grunting in pain. He stood up, his features blanching in agony. Spinning to face me, he growled, “Get inside. I don’t have patience for nonsense.”