“Not to me.”
I can’t tell if that’s a good or bad thing.
10
Rip
Islam the door behind me. “Has he talked?”
He’s at the desk, all focused on his computer, with his back to me. As Thomas crafts the next social media post, a clip of Kingsley speaking to the camera plays continuously. “Take a wild guess.”
My eyes flicker to the shut closet door. “Did you even try to get him to?”
He looks at me with a scowl. “Do you think I was sitting on my arse the whole time you were at the gym?”
“That’s what it looks like right now.”
“Fuck off, Rip,” my brother grumbles.
“Someone’s grouchy,” I chirp.
Between my room and Tommy’s is a storage closet. It’s what holds the broom, mop, and laundry board, and it’s roomier than our closets back home. Now it holds the guard from last night. He’s triple zip-tied to a pipe on the wall with a ball gag in his mouth to keep him from alerting the neighbors.
It was a challenge to sneak him out of the house and into the room—I was stuck carrying him while Tommy checked if the coast was clear. For a bit there, I thought we were totally fucked, but Thomas and I always scrape by somehow.
Since we’ve been at Beaumont Grand, it was the most action I’ve experienced, and I have to admit, it makes me want to continue chasing that freeing thrill rather than lollygagging with Kingsley.
Though lollygagging with the prince isn’t all that bad.
I chuckle to myself. Every time I call him a prince, he shudders. Out of everything I could say to him, that’s the word that gets a rise out of him, even if it is subtle.
I point to the gag in his mouth. “I usually like to get to know you before we go this far, but you seem to be enjoying it.”
The guard slumps against the wall, head down, wrists red from trying to yank himself out of the zip ties. Huh, I guess he didn’t find my joke amusing.
At least he’s calmed down. Last night, once he woke up in the cramped confines of our closet, he had a lot of unkind curses for Thomas and me. Too tired to force information out of him, we gagged him, tied him up in the closet, and locked it with zip ties and a chair to hold him until we can get the items to secure it properly.
I crouch down to his level. “Okay, buddy. If I take this out of your mouth, are you going to be good?”
He doesn’t move a muscle. Despite not getting any confirmation, I remove the gag, saliva dripping off it. After that, I’ll take off the blindfold so he can see something other than darkness for a little while. Aren’t I so kind?
As his eyes open, I’m met with a disgusted glare, and the shivery feeling it sends down my spine is actually quite enjoyable. He’s mad, but underneath it all, he’s scared. He doesn’t know what awaits him, be it torture or death, and that alone makes me eager to talk to him.
“Okay, it’s been some hours, so let’s try this again.” I smile grimly. “What’s your name?”
“Fuck. You,” he seethes.
Everyone always wants to do it the hard way. I wind my fist back and let it collide with his nose, knocking the back of his head into the wall. The poor guy can’t even hold his bruised nose because his arms are tied.
I shake off the sting in my knuckles. “Try again.”
He wipes the blood dripping from his nostrils with his shoulder. “How are the social media marketers fucking kidnappers?”
“Jack of all trades,” I say. Instead of giving his name like I told him to, he rolls his eyes.
The guard must think we’re random amateurs who don’t know who they’re dealing with. I haven’t shown him how serious I am.
I reach into my sock, grab my camo Swiss Army knife, and open the blade. Inspecting it, I move closer to him. “I’ve been here for onelongmonth, and in that time, do you know how much action I’ve gotten?”
