Page 23 of Dark Wolf Soul
If I really am an heir to a crime syndicate, then being trapped inside this room is nothing compared to what waits for me out there. I suddenly remember Grey warned me that being held captive by him was probably the safest option in this city. And that makes me trapped on a whole new level. Even if I find a way out of this apartment, I won’t be any safer; not while I’m inside the borders of Indigo Hills.
Still, I can’t exactly sit around, twiddling my thumbs, waiting for someone to show up and rescue me. That’s never happening—not to me.
If I’m going to get out of this shit, I’ll have to save myself.
Despite Grey’s warning, I glance around for some way out. Survival instincts and all that. But the one window in the room is locked tight, and even if it weren’t, I’m twenty floors up at least with no fire escape or even a ledge or drain pipe to help.
Ugh.
If I want to be free, I have to start by leaving this room.
When my stomach growls, I decide it’s as good an excuse as any to venture out, if for no other reason than to test the boundaries of my cage.
Grey’s in the kitchen, dressed in a fresh shirt and dark cargo pants that are nearly identical to what he wore earlier. His dark hair is wet, and I can smell his soap as I drift closer, stopping in front of the bar that separates me from the kitchen—and him.
The smell of him alone threatens to make me forget he’s my enemy.
“Figured you’d be asleep,” he says, eyeing me.
“Figured you’d have locked me in that room,” I shoot back.
“No need. Elevator’s fingerprint operated.”
Damn.
“So, I’ll have to kill you or cut off your hand to get out of here.”
His brow lifts at that, but the lack of worry as he dismisses the comment and turns for the fridge makes it clear he doesn’t see me as a threat.
Asshole.
“You hungry?” he asks, taking out a carton of eggs.
My stomach growls again, and I suddenly hate how I’m completely at his mercy. “I could eat.”
His mouth quirks, and then he goes to work scrambling eggs like he’s done it a thousand times. I slide onto a barstool to watch, catching myself admiring the flexing of his forearm muscles as he whips the eggs, adding a little milk and some herbs.
“So,” I say, trying for casual. “You’re in the mafia.”
He nods but doesn’t look up.
“What’s it like?”
“The benefits suck,” he quips.
“Have you killed anyone before?” I ask as he pours the eggs into a hot pan.
He glances at me then back down again. “Have you?”
That’s not an answer, but it’s also not the most important question.
“Are you going to killme?”
He looks up then, spatula in one hand, and meets my eyes with a level gaze. “No,” he says firmly, and even though I know it’s probably naive of me, I believe him. “That’s not on the table,” he adds.
The way he says it makes me wonder if someone wanted it on the table.
“Was kidnapping me your idea?” I ask.
