Devil’s Game (Reapers MC #3)(18)
Author: Joanna Wylde

Liam—Hunter? whoever the hell he was—grinned at me, then pulled away the phone as Dad started shouting. He tugged the gag back up and stuffed it into my mouth, then stepped toward the cliff’s edge, talking softly just out of earshot.

I wobbled, wondering if there was any point in trying to hop away.

Not really.

Hunter spoke for a moment longer, then turned off the phone and casually pitched it over the fence and into the falls.

He turned back and gave me an evil smile.

“Your daddy’s pretty fond of you, Em,” he said. “Things are going to work out just fine.”

Not for him, they wouldn’t.

• • •

The van drove forever, and I lost all sense of time as we jolted around in the back. Hunter and Skid—apparently that was the other ass**le’s name—spoke quietly, making the occasional vague phone call in what had to be some sort of unholy Devil’s Jacks kidnapping code.

I couldn’t communicate with Sophie, but I did everything in my power to send her a message with my eyes. You’re not alone, our men will rescue us. I’m so damned sorry I brought this down on you. Something along those lines.

Not sure it sank in.

She was probably thinking about her little boy, Noah, and wondering if she’d ever see him again.

It was a good question. Wish I knew the answer.

The van finally stopped and they dragged us out. We were in front of a house, an older one. Two stories, big porch, and apparently in the middle of nowhere. There were sparse trees off in the distance and gentle hills that kept me from seeing any other houses.

Great.

Hunter carried me into the living room and set me down on the couch gently. Skid dropped Sophie down next to me, and she struggled to sit up.

“Here’s the situation,” Hunter said. “You’re here as leverage. One of the Reapers down in Portland—Toke—made a real bad call tonight. He went to our house and started shooting, no warning, no provocation.”

Fuck, I thought, eyes going wide. Toke was definitely a Reaper, but he’d been in the wind for the past week. I felt a burning pain in my side, where the wound he’d given me the weekend before was still healing. He’d cut me with a f**king knife in the middle of a party. Allegedly it was an accident, but Dad wasn’t amused. He’d taken off after him shooting.

Now Toke had found a new way to cause damage. Asshole.

“He took a hostage when he left. One of our brothers is down and a second is probably getting tortured to death right now, so you’ll have to excuse us for being a little abrupt about this whole thing. Your daddy”—he nodded at me—“is gonna do what it takes to get our guy back for us. That happens, you go home.”

I studied Liam, torn between hurt that he’d betrayed me and unspeakable rage toward Toke. I didn’t know the details of what had gone down between him and the club. Last weekend there’d been a big meeting, but I didn’t have anything to do with that. Not like I was privy to club business—that was a boys’ game. But I wasn’t stupid, either, and I’d been born a Reaper.

Something had gone very wrong in that meeting for things to get this far out of balance.

I really did want to shoot Toke, I decided. I also wanted to shoot Liam. No, his name is Hunter, I reminded myself. His name is Hunter and you don’t know him at all.

“You’re dead, Liam,” I told him, emphasizing the fake name, making it clear I was onto his shit. He didn’t respond. “My dad is going to put you in the ground. Let us go now and I’ll try to talk him out of it. Otherwise it’ll be too late. I’m serious. He. Will. Kill. You.”

This was the simple truth.

“Sorry, babe,” he said, and his voice sounded so sincere, so much like the man I’d thought I’d known . . . It cut through me in a way Toke’s knife never could. “I get that you’re scared and pissed, but I’m not going to let a brother die just because some Reaper had a tantrum.”

Don’t talk about my club that way, I wanted to growl at him. Goddamned men. Why did their bullshit always have to spill over on me? I narrowed my eyes at him, willing every bit of angry hatred I felt into my words.

“Fuck you.”

Hunter (I decided not to call him Liam anymore—Liam was a nice name for a nice guy, and it didn’t fit this bastard at all) glanced at his friend, then rubbed a hand over his face. For a minute he looked tired.

Jackass.

I was going to laugh at his funeral.

“Okay, let’s go upstairs,” Hunter announced. He glanced over at poor Sophie, who had gone pale. My anger faded a little, replaced by guilt. I needed to stop worrying about my hurt feelings and start planning our escape. If we had to wait for Dad to find Toke, we might find ourselves dead in a ditch.

Not that I really thought Hunter would kill me . . . Despite the evidence to the contrary, I just couldn’t fathom him truly hurting me. Denial? Probably. Skid was another story. There was something evil in his eyes.

Hunter pulled out a Leatherman and knelt down at my feet. I considered kicking him in the chin but decided that wouldn’t do me much good strategically. Pity. Then he cut the rope. Skid pulled out a pistol and cocked it loudly.

“You cause trouble, I’ll shoot you,” he said, and I realized I’d succeeded in conveying my homicidal intentions clearly. Yay me! “Hunter’s nice. I’m not.”

Strangely enough his words helped me focus—I’d let myself get worked up over my hurt pride, but I couldn’t let anger take over my brain. I couldn’t afford to do something stupid. Sophie might be a sweetheart, but she wasn’t a Reaper and she had no idea what we were up against. I’d have to be the one to get us out of this.

Sobering thought.

Hunter grabbed my arm and pulled me to my feet. Then he tugged me up a flight of stairs off to the side of the living room. Behind us I heard Skid and Sophie following. Hunter opened a door on the right and pulled me in, kicking it shut behind us. I looked around. It was a bedroom.

With a bed.

Suddenly the situation took on a new set of implications I hadn’t considered before. Liam’s whole persona might’ve been a great, big, fat fake, but he hadn’t been faking one thing. I’d definitely felt his dick poking my ass earlier. Either he wore a hell of a prosthetic at all times, or he actually wanted to f**k me. Now he had a nice, comfy bed to do it on.

Shit.

His hands grasped mine, and I heard the click of the lock turning on the cuffs. I wasn’t free, though—he held my wrists tight as he pushed me across the room. I refused to move my feet, stalling. He leaned down, speaking softly in my ear.