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He had the audacity to let out a huff of a chuckle that left Violet furious.
“Usually say ‘please,’” he said as he turned around.
“Please get me the fuck out of this crazy town where some psycho is holding me hostage in his kitchen and refusing to tell me why the fuck I was almost involved in some ritual killing yesterday,” she said sweetly, a vicious smile on her face.
He turned back from the sizzling pan to look at her. “This morning,” he corrected, and she wanted to punch him.
“What’s Forest Bluff? Your buddies snatched me from a club in Frankston,” she shot back.
“Those kids aren’t my buddies.” He sprinkled toppings onto the eggs, and Violet glared daggers at his back.
He talked slowly, voice deep and lulling, like he had all the time in the world. It drove her crazy. She gritted her teeth.
“Why are you keeping me here?” She forced herself to stop at the one question, although she had dozens, hoping he’d answer if it was just the one. He didn’t. The eggs sizzled in the pan and hissed when he flipped the omelet. Then, he slid it onto a plate and ground a healthy amount of pepper over the top. He pushed this one to her with a little flourish. Violet only glared at him.
“Tell me what the fuck is going on,” she demanded.
“Eat before it’s cold,” he replied, and she wanted to scream.
She cut a piece and he seemed satisfied, turning to dig in the refrigerator before a bottle of water was set down by her plate. She chewed and watched him wipe down the counters—this guy made no sense, and she tried to figure out if he was dangerous, deranged, or just fucking weird.
By the time she swallowed the last bite, she still had no clue, but what she knew was that he was intimidating, the size of him saw to that. He hadn’t been needlessly unkind to her so far, despite holding her hostage, she reminded herself, but there was something about him. He was attractive, thick muscled, and dripping the kind of dark mystery she was sure lesser women swooned at. He was older, at least in his thirties she guessed, and eerily quiet.
“Am I ever going to see my family again?” The question was quieter than her previous one had been, and she ignored the prickle of sadness and regret in her chest when she thought of Lila, alone in the mansion with only Magnus now.
“No.” His voice was as quiet as hers, but it sounded like a gunshot to Violet.
“You’re going to kill me then?”
“No.” He wasn’t wiping the counters any longer, just standing, hands curled around the granite’s edge, probably studying the wall in front of him, Violet guessed from his back. Her fingers balled into fists, her temper close, but she fought it back—at least he was answering her.
“So, what, you’ll keep me prisoner here forever?” A long beat passed, and he didn’t answer. Dread bloomed anew inside her. “Please tell me what’s going on and why I can’t go home?” Discomfort was audible in her voice, and she hated it, but it seemed to affect him.
“Once Jason brought you over the line that wasn’t an option.” He turned to look at her, voice gruff, face an unreadable mask. “Nobody from the outside leaves the Bluff once they’re in. This is your home now.”
Violet blinked at him in disbelief.
“And why did they try to shoot me with an arrow?” she heard her voice ask, feeling like she was separating from her body. This all had to be some colossal cosmic joke, but he wasn’t laughing.
“Jason brought you in. Didn’t claim you at the ceremony. If no one claims an outsider, they kill them. First time in years it’s happened.”
“What the fuck?” Violet realized she’d said it as she’d thought it. “What do you mean by claim? How did you catch a freaking arrow?”
She watched him wet his lips, look away, then look back to her.
“Claimed you,” he said, eyes boring into hers. “Was that or watch you die.”
Shock held her tongue for a long moment. Self-preservation made her careful with her answer.
“I appreciate you saving me”—and she did, she decided—“but I want to go home.”
He shrugged his large shoulders and said nothing.
“Explain claimed to me? Explain this wackjob town? Is this some kind of psychiatric community I tripped into the middle of? Why is nobody calling the police when some dude’s trying to shoot girls in the square at dawn?”
“Police won’t help you here,” he informed her grimly, then hesitated to run a hand over his jaw. His fingers scruffed the stubble there, and Violet tried to pair this thoughtfulness with the fact he was keeping her hostage.
“The Bluff is a closed community,” he finally said. “Things work differently here; you’ll get used to it. You have to understand that you need to stay with me. It’s not safe to go wandering by yourself.”
