Whatever he was doing, it wasn't good.
I assessed my options. I could run—the smart choice. I could find somewhere to hide until the motorcycle club returned—the safe choice. Or I could stop him—the stupid choice.
I went with stupid.
Drawing a deep breath, I gathered my strength. I might be small and underfed, but I was still a lynx shifter. We might not have the raw power of bears or wolves, but we had speed and precision that most other shifters lacked.
I pushed the door open silently and slipped into the room. Three steps brought me behind the intruder, who remained focused on the screen, muttering something about "encrypted files." One more step and I was coiled, ready.
I launched myself across the desk, a hiss escaping my throat that was more lynx than human.
The man's head jerked up, eyes widening in shock as I collided with his chest. My momentum knocked his chair backward, sending us both crashing to the floor. I landed on top, immediately slashing with my hands—not quite claws in human form, but my nails were sharp enough to draw blood across his cheek.
"What the fu—" He swung at me, but I was already moving, ducking under his arm and sinking my teeth into his wrist.
He howled, trying to shake me off. I bit harder, tasting blood. Living rough meant fighting dirty—no rules, no mercy.
He managed to grab a fistful of my hair with his free hand, yanking hard enough to bring tears to my eyes. I released his wrist and twisted, clawing at his face again before kicking hard at his groin. His grip loosened as he doubled over, cursing.
I scrambled away, putting the desk between us. He was bigger, stronger, but I was faster and had nothing to lose. As he started to rise, I grabbed the nearest heavy object—a silver motorcycle statue from the desk—and vaulted back over.
The statue connected with his temple with a sickening crack. His eyes rolled back, and he crumpled to the floor. I landed beside him, breathing hard, adrenaline still surging through my system. One of the wheels had broken off the motorcycle statue, skittering across the floor.
I winced.
I hadn't meant to break it.
I poked the man cautiously. Out cold, but breathing. Blood trickled from the gash on his temple where the statue had connected.
Now what?
I couldn't leave him here. What if he woke up before the bikers returned? I couldn't let him escape after what he'd tried to do. Not after I'd committed to this spectacularly bad decision.
I looked at the computer. The device was still plugged in, still blinking. I yanked it out and shoved it in my pocket.
Evidence.
The next problem was moving him. He had to weigh at least twice what I did. But I'd moved heavier things when necessary.
I grabbed him under the arms and began the laborious process of dragging him from the office. Each pull sent pain shooting through my undernourished muscles. Down the hallway, through the kitchen and out the back door to the yard.
Sweat soaked through my hoodie by the time I reached the picnic table—the same one where the red-haired cook left food for me.
Fitting, somehow.
I needed something to secure him. Rope, tape, anything. I remembered seeing a garage or workshop attached to the main building. I might find something useful there.
I left the man sprawled in the dirt and slipped into the workshop through a side door. The space smelled of oil and metal and rubber. Tools hung in neat rows on pegboards. Parts of motorcycles in various stages of repair filled workbenches. A coil of sturdy rope hung on a hook near the door.
Perfect.
By the time I returned, the man had started to groan, shifting slightly. I worked quickly, binding his wrists behind him, and then securing him to one of the heavy picnic table legs. I used more rope than necessary, wrapping it multiple times incomplex knots I'd learned from a sailor who'd once shared a homeless camp with me.
"No getting out of that," I muttered as I finished the last knot.
The man's eyes fluttered. I stepped back, statue still clutched in my hand in case he tried anything.
He blinked, confusion giving way to anger as he realized his situation. He tested the bonds, then glared at me. "You little shit," he snarled. "Do you have any idea who I'm working for? You're dead."
