Before I could continue my tirade, Marco approached with a bottle of water and handed it to me. “Drink,” he said. “You’re dehydrated from your swim and escape attempt.”
I took the bottle warily, examining the seal to ensure it hadn’t been tampered with. Trust wasn’t exactly high on my list of emotions right now. “Is it drugged? Or is that coming later with the ‘forced rest’ portion of the evening’s entertainment? Maybe a nice roofie cocktail to go with whatever gourmet prison food you’re preparing?”
Marco’s laugh was surprisingly genuine. “If we wanted to drug you, little wildcat, we wouldn’t need to hide it in water. Now drink before you pass out and make this evening even more dramatic than it needs to be.”
“Because being kidnapped and forcibly undressed isn’t dramatic enough already,” I muttered. “I should really tone it down. Maybe send you all thank-you cards for the experience. ‘Dear Alpha Kidnapper, Thanks for the memorable forest adventure and undressing. The borrowed clothes were a nicetouch. Hostage rating: seven out of ten, would not recommend but could have been worse.’”
The water was cool and refreshing, and I hadn’t realized how thirsty I was until the first sip touched my lips. I drained half the bottle before coming up for air, suddenly aware of three pairs of eyes watching me with varying degrees of intensity. It was like being a particularly interesting zoo exhibit—the rare captive omega in its unnatural habitat.
“What?” I demanded, self-consciousness making me bristle. “Never seen someone drink water before? Should I perform tricks with it next? Maybe a spit-take when you reveal the evening’s schedule includes a three-alpha musical number? I hear ‘Kidnapped Omega Blues’ is trending on the alpha charts this week.”
“Nothing,” Stefano said, though his gaze lingered on my throat as I swallowed. “Just making sure you’re following instructions properly.”
“Gold star for me,” I said dryly. “I’ve mastered the complex art of hydration. Harvard will be calling with honorary degrees any minute now. ‘Doctor of Water Consumption’ has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?”
Matteo had begun building the fire. The sun was starting to dip lower in the sky, and despite the summer heat, I knew nights in the mountains could get cool quickly. I pulled my legs up onto the chair, wrapping my arms around my knees in an attempt to preserve warmth and dignity—both of which were in increasingly short supply.
“So, what now?” I asked, trying to sound bored rather than anxious. “Ghost stories around the campfire? Singing ‘Kumbaya’? Or do we jump straight to the part where you tell me all about your evil plan for world domination? I assume it involves excessive hair product and dramatic lighting. All the best villain monologues do.”
“Now,” Stefano said, rising from his chair, “we eat dinner. Then we discuss your sleeping arrangements for the night.”
“Sleeping arrangements,” I repeated, a new wave of anxiety washing through me. The way he said it made it sound like a euphemism for something much worse than actual sleep. “Let me guess—I get to choose between ‘uncomfortably close to alpha one’ or ‘inappropriately near alphas two and three’? Or is there a fourth option involving sleeping suspended over a pit of snakes? Because at this point, I might prefer the snakes. At least they’re honest about their intentions to kill you.”
“Something like that,” Stefano agreed with a smile that did nothing to calm my nerves. “But first, food. I imagine you’re hungry after all that… exercise.”
The way he said “exercise” made it sound like something far more intimate than running through the forest and nearly drowning, and I felt a flush creep up my neck despite my best efforts to remain unaffected. His talent for making innocent words sound suggestive was truly impressive, in an infuriating sort of way.
“I’m not hungry,” I lied, even as my stomach betrayed me with an audible growl that could probably be heard in the next county.
Marco snorted. “Right. And I’m the Pope. When’s the last time you ate, wildcat?”
I tried to remember and came up blank. Breakfast felt like a lifetime ago, before my brilliant escape plan had devolved into a wet t-shirt contest with three alphas who apparently had nothing better to do than chase runaways through the forest.
“That’s irrelevant,” I said, though my stomach chose that moment to growl again, even louder. “I don’t accept food from kidnappers. It’s against my personal code of ethics. Right up there with ‘don’t get in cars with strangers’ and ‘avoid alphas with god complexes.’”
“Rule two,” Stefano reminded me calmly. “You eat what we provide, when we provide it.”
“What if I’m vegetarian?” I asked. “Or have allergies? Or just philosophically opposed to accepting sustenance from my captors? This could be a very short kidnapping if you accidentally poison me with something I can’t eat.”
“Are you?” Matteo asked. “Vegetarian?”
“No,” I admitted reluctantly. “But I could develop strong moral objections to meat in the next five minutes. Personal growth is important, even in captivity.”
Marco laughed, actually laughed, which was both annoying and slightly reassuring. At least he found my impending starvation amusing. “You’re going to eat,” he said, returning to whatever he was preparing. “Because you’re hungry, because you’re smart enough to know you need your strength, and because that stomach of yours is louder than a freight train.”
He wasn’t wrong. The smell of whatever he was cooking was starting to make my mouth water despite my principles. When had I become so easy to bribe with the promise of food?
“Fine,” I muttered. “But I’m eating under protest. And if there’s anything weird in it, I’m blaming you when I die of mysterious poisoning. I’ll haunt you with the fury of a thousand disappointed omegas.”
“Noted,” Stefano said, and I caught what might have been amusement in his voice. “We’ll add that to your list of creative threats.”
five
. . .
The fire blazed to life under Matteo’s expert hands, casting flickering shadows across the clearing as the sun began its descent behind the mountains. Despite my determination to remain aloof and hostile, I gravitated toward the warmth, the evening air already cooling against my skin.
Marco worked at the makeshift kitchen station with surprising efficiency, preparing what smelled disturbingly like an actual gourmet meal. The incongruity of a mafia alpha (because what else could these guys be?) cooking dinner while I sat captive in borrowed clothes was not lost on me. It was like being kidnapped by the Food Network—brutal intimidation with a side of perfectly seared protein.
