Collared By Four Ruthless Men

Chapter 2

I woke up not knowing where I was.

That panic hit before my eyes were even fully open. I sat up fast, heart already going, and then the room came into focus and the panic didn't leave but it changed shape. Because the room was nice. Really nice. Nicer than anywhere I'd ever slept in my life.

Soft sheets. Actual soft sheets, not the cheap kind that pill after two washes. A bed that was probably worth more than three months of my rent. The walls were dark and the furniture was heavy and real and there was a window with thick curtains pulled shut letting in a thin line of grey morning light.

I sat still for a moment and just breathed.

Then I got up and started checking every exit I could find.

The window first. I pulled the curtain back and looked out onto a yard surrounded by a fence that was not decorative. Solid wood, tall, the kind with no footholds. Beyond it I could see the edge of the compound, a couple of bikes parked near a garage, one man moving slowly with a coffee cup. Not patrolling exactly. Just present.

I let the curtain fall.

The door was unlocked, which surprised me. I opened it slowly onto a hallway, listened, heard movement somewhere below. Footsteps, a voice, the sound of something being set down in a kitchen. I stood there calculating. Even if I made it downstairs and found a door, I'd still have the yard, the fence, the man outside. And that was assuming no one was between me and the door.

I went back into the room and sat on the edge of the bed.

Okay. So. Not that kind of escape. Not yet.

I was still sitting there, still running the numbers on exactly how stuck I was, when there was a knock at the door. Two knocks, easy and unhurried, and then it opened before I said anything.

The man who came in wasn't the one with the scar. This one was tall and lean with hazel eyes and dark locs pulled back. He was carrying a tray. Actual food. Eggs, toast, a mug of something hot, a small glass of orange juice. He set it on the table near the window like this was a hotel and he was room service.

Then he pulled out the chair across from me and sat down.

I stared at him.

"You should eat," he said. Casual. Like we were two people who knew each other and this was a completely normal morning.

"Who are you."

"Rook." He nodded at the tray. "Eggs are going to get cold."

I didn't move. "Where am I."

"Safe." He said it simply, no performance behind it. "That's the part that matters right now."

I looked at the food. I was hungry. I hated that I was hungry, hated that my body was going to make me practical about this regardless of how I felt. I reached over and picked up the toast.

Rook watched me eat without making it weird, which was somehow more disarming than if he'd stared. He just sat there, relaxed, like he had nowhere to be, asking me occasional questions. Where had I been walking from. How long had I worked at the diner. Did I take that route home often.

I answered some of them. Not all. He didn't push on the ones I skipped.

The thing about him was that he was easy to be around and I didn't trust that for a second. Men who are naturally charming in a situation like this are more dangerous than the ones who scare you outright. At least with scared you know where you stand.

Still. When he laughed at something I said, quiet and genuine, I almost forgot for a moment. Almost.

"I want to go home," I said.

He looked at me. The easy expression didn't drop exactly, it just settled into something more honest.

"I know."

"So let me."

He was quiet for a second. Then he smiled, and it was a real smile, which somehow made it worse. "I can't do that, Sloane."

Just like that. No apology wrapped around it, no elaborate explanation. Just a simple, direct no delivered like he was sorry about it but not sorry enough to change it.

I set down the mug.

"Okay," I said.

He looked slightly surprised. Like he'd expected more of a fight.

I wasn't going to give him the fight. Not now. Not until I knew more about what I was fighting against.

Because that was the thing I'd figured out in the hour before he knocked. These men were not chaotic. The room I was in, the food that arrived at a reasonable hour, the unlocked door that led nowhere useful. None of that was accidental. There was a structure to this. Rules, rhythms, a way things were done. And I had spent enough years managing difficult situations with nothing but my own wits to know one thing for certain.

Every system has gaps. You just have to be patient enough to find them.

Rook left the tray and told me someone would check in later. He said it like a promise, not a threat, which I noted. I nodded and watched him go and then I sat back and started paying attention properly.

The sounds of the house. How many sets of footsteps, where they moved, when. The light outside shifting as the morning went on. How long before anyone came back up. I filed everything away and kept my face neutral and let them think I was just scared.

Scared was fine. Scared was useful.

It was late morning when I heard the voice in the hallway outside my door. Low, clipped, not on the phone for long.

Zane.

I recognised his voice before I caught the words. I moved quietly to the door and listened.

"Situation's handled," he said. A pause. "No. She's contained. It's fine."

Footsteps moved away down the hall.

I stood there with my hand flat against the door.

Situation.

That was what I was. Not a person, not a problem he was losing sleep over. A situation. Handled and contained and filed away under things that were fine now.

I don't know why that word landed harder than any of the rest of it. But it did. It settled over me like cold water and I stood there for a long moment just letting it.

Then I straightened up, went back to the bed, and started making a list in my head of everything I'd observed so far.

I had a lot of work to do.