Page 88 of Knot Playing Fair 2

THIRTY-SEVEN

Byron

THE DAYLIGHT FILTERINGthrough the filthy, barred window had faded to darkness hours ago. We’d been here almost a day without food or water—reduced to pissing in an old mop bucket with a cracked rim that Nat had found moldering in a corner.

The stab wound in my right thigh had finally stopped bleeding. Nat’s wadded up undershirt was tied tightly in place over the gouge, using the sleeves torn off his dress shirt to hold it. I’d lost too much blood already, based on the way my vision spun dizzily, gray fog seeping in from the periphery if I tried to move too fast. Pain radiated out from the injury in throbbing waves, reminding me way too closely of the aftermath of being shot.

None of us recognized the view through the grimy glass of the window. It looked vaguely industrial and largely abandoned. Unfortunately, that described quite a number of places on both banks of the Mississippi, surrounding the greater St. Louis metropolitan area. The others had searched the room we were being held in, but it had been picked over long ago. The rusty bucket had so far been the only thing that had a practical use, disgusting though it was.

I’d half expected Luca to grill me more about sleeping with Nat, but after his initial burst of anger, he’d subsided back intounnatural silence. There hadn’t been a repeat of Nat holding him while he dozed. Which was probably just as well. My stomach was dipping and rolling enough from the blood loss, without adding in the storm of emotions I’d felt at watching the beta I’d screwed caring for the omega that I... also screwed.

The only saving grace of potentially dying of blood loss or infection was that I wouldn’t be around to face the aftermath of this colossal clusterfuck.

“How long d’you think they’ll leave us in here?” Nat asked hoarsely.

I hadn’t missed the fact that he was hurt, too. There just wasn’t a lot I could do about it right now.

“Fuck knows,” I grunted, not happy at how weak and thready my voice sounded.

Luca was worrying me, my alpha instincts itching and poking at me tofix it, despite the utter impossibility of doing anything useful.

There was no way to get word to anyone who might help us. Luca’s and my cell phones had been taken, and Nat’s was missing—lost in the initial struggle in the alley, at a guess.

While not an alpha, Nat was a strong guy. He’d tried the bars on the window first, in hopes that the frame might be rusty. There was no give, though. Not with the window, not with the door—one of those old industrial green-painted metal ones. The heavy lock looked like a double-cylinder deadbolt, the kind that no one used anymore because requiring a key from both the inside and outside of a room was a goddamn safety hazard.

As though my thoughts had manifested it, the double-cylinder deadbolt clicked, announcing the arrival of more visitors. Nat immediately clambered to his feet, placing himself between Luca and the door. I would have liked to do the same, but my first attempt to get up made it obvious that all I was going to accomplish was fainting and falling flat on my face.

I stayed where I was, glaring at the door as it swung open.

This time, three men came in, and two of them had guns held casually by their sides. They flanked a tall figure wearing a nice suit, who seemed oddly out of place in these surroundings. The scent of iron and sandalwood tickled my nostrils as the alpha strode forward. He held a little electric emergency light in one beefy hand, his dark eyes roving over us like someone assessing roasts in a butcher’s display case.

From the back corner, Luca made a small, trapped animal noise.

A cruel smile flickered at one side of the alpha’s full lips, but he sobered and turned his attention fully on Nat.

“Mr. Bell,” he said, setting the light down on the floor. “I’ve so been looking forward to speaking with you. As it happens, I have a proposition to put to you.”

“Who the hell are you?” Nat rasped, his fists clenching by his sides.

I eyed the gun-wielding goons warily.

“Think of me as a...colleague,” said the alpha, his cruel smile returning. “Or perhaps a friendly competitor. I own a small establishment located a couple of blocks from yours.”

Nat’s gaze narrowed. “Blake Berlusconi.”

“Indeed,” said the man. “As it happens, I wish to discuss the sale of the Elderflower Inn. I understand you’ve been having...issues, lately. I would like to offer you a one-time payment of forty thousand dollars to take the place off your hands before anything elseunfortunatehappens.”

Nat gaped at him. “You kidnapped me in order to make a cash offer of forty thousand dollars for aMichelin-star restaurant?”

Berlusconi’s smile turned icy. “For a roach-infested dive with a history of safety violations and employee injuries. Which, I’m given to understand, is in debt up to its eyeballs.”

Nat seemed to visibly puff up, like an overheating cartoon steam engine about to blow. “You can take youroffer, and shove it so far up your ass that you get a tonsil infection!”

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