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“Yes. Ours.” Leonid towers over me, his hands clasped behind his back. “That’s what Kody and I wore when we arrived here.”
“Together?”
“No. We arrived four years apart.”
Leo is five years older than Kody. My head swims, trying to piece it together. So many questions. Will he make me strip for each answer? Or worse?
“Different mothers,” I say the obvious.
Neither of them corrects me.
“How old were you?” I finger the tiny shoes, the answer right in front of me. “Age two. Maybe three.” I catch Leonid’s flinty gaze. “If Kodiak was two when he got here, that means you were seven when you first met. You would remember him arriving.”
The corner of Leonid’s mouth jerks, an involuntary twitch of nerves.
I take that to mean I guessed right. “Your mothers were kidnapped like me?”
Shivery silence stretches between them, choking the air. Maybe that’s an answer, but it’s not enough. I need details. I need to understand what happened, how often it happens, and why it’s happening to me.
How long did Leonid’s mother survive before Denver went hunting for Kodiak’s mother? They arrived four years apart, but were there other victims in between? Mothers and children who didn’t live?
The direction of my thoughts makes me shudder. I’m not ready to voice those dark questions, certainly not in exchange for my clothes.
Kodiak stares at the crate of clues, his gaze stark. Then he shoves his huge paw into the box, digs around, and removes a bundle of credit cards.
No, not credit cards.
U.S. driver’s licenses.
He fans them in his hand, and I quickly count five—all with photos of female faces—before he rebinds them with a rubber band and tosses the stack to Leonid.
“The bones…” A lump swells in my throat. “They belonged to…one of those women? All of them?”
“Nothing is gained from digging up the past.” Leonid slips the IDs into his pocket and steps back to recline against the wall with his arms folded across his chest. “I’ve already told you too much. The way I see it, you’re in my debt.”
“What do you want?”
“Remove the bra.”
I glance at Kodiak beside me. He chugs the vodka, doing his best to remain out of it. Detached. Aloof. But I don’t miss the cords pulling taut in his throat or the deep lines of tension around his mouth and eyes. He’s a long way from being detached.
Snatching the bottle from his hand, I drink down several swallows. Smooth liquid heat melts through my body, relaxing my limbs. I drink more and pass it back.
If Leonid wants to see my tits, why doesn’t he just rip off my top? He’s stronger, bigger. I can’t stop him.
But he isn’t the enemy. He and Kodiak were taken just like me. They can’t leave. We’re all trapped here.
Captives without chains.
Imprisoned without bars.
Yet he’s treating me like we’re not on the same side.
Fuck, it’s just tits, and I want answers. I’m not a prude. But there’s a slippery slope.
First, my top would go. Then my leggings and undies. What would be left? Unwanted touches and kisses? Licking? Sucking? Fucking?
Selling my body and soul for scraps of information?
Cheating.
If Monty were here, what would he say? He’s the most jealous, possessive man in existence, but I think he would forgive me if I showed my boobs in a survival situation. Hell, married women flash their tits every day in New Orleans for trivial things like plastic beads.
You’re overthinking again.
Seeking distance, I rise from the floor and retreat a few feet away. Then I pull in a steely breath and wriggle out of the sports bra.
Goosebumps prickle my skin, warring with a hot flush of self-consciousness. My nipples tighten in the chill as I overcome the urge to cover them and let my arms hang awkwardly at my sides.
“Mother of God.” The look Leonid gives me could set a church on fire. “Fuck.”
Kodiak turns to stone. Head to toe, he doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe. Doesn’t blink. He holds himself so rigid I wonder if it hurts. That would explain the pain in his eyes as he stares at my chest. It’s the strangest reaction I’ve ever received standing naked before a man. The strangest but also the most flattering. He seems to be so moved by what he sees that he’s dumbstruck.
Then there’s Leonid.
“You’re beautiful, Frankie.” Voice low and gravelly, he clenches his hands. “So fucking sweet.”
Every part of him seems to clench as if he’s fighting himself, fighting to stay where he is.
Please don’t attack me.
My heart hammers, and I moisten my lips. “I counted five IDs. Is that all of them? All the women he’s abducted? Or are there more?”
“They’re all here.” He removes the licenses from his pocket and holds them out. “Except yours.”
“Does Denver know you have these?”
“Does he care?”
He will when I escape and contact the families of his victims.
