“All clear,” Lars tells me. “Now, what the fuck do we do about this guy?”

Before I can answer, Perry speaks up, back to sounding like he’s a guest and not our captive. “I have an idea.”

CHAPTER ELEVEN

PERRY

“Shut up,” the big guy snaps. He’s almost a whole head taller than St. Clare, and judging by the size of his biceps, there’s a very real possibility I’m seeing roid rage in action.

“Ah, where are my manners? I’m Perry. Who are you?”

Rager glares at me, and when he does it, it doesn’t have the same reluctance as St. Clare. No, it looks like he straight up hates me, and really, is that fair when we don’t even know each other? I understand we’re off to a rocky start here, but what happened to second chances?

“Just say the word and I’ll get rid of him,” Rager says.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” I protest. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”

St. Clare looks like he’s trying not to laugh. “Shockingly, I’m with him.” He points my way. “Get rid of him? Lars, come on.”

“He tried to kill you.”

Those blue eyes cut to me. “But you’re not going to again, are you?”

I confirm it like a good little prisoner. “No. I didn’t even want to the first time, but now that we’ve met and spoken, that would be pretty much impossible.”

“You believe that shit?” Ragey Lars snaps, throwing his arm out my way.

The indecision on St. Clare’s face makes it clear he really doesn’t, so I offer up my most innocent smile. The one that always derails Margot’s steam when she’s grumpy with me.

Instead of the explosion of trust I’m expecting, St. Clare’s eyes narrow.

“We’re not some shady underworld thugs,” St. Clare says eventually. “We can’t just get rid of people.”

“So we let him kill you instead?”

“I didn’t say that either.”

“I said I have an idea,” I remind them.

They both ignore me.

While St. Clare and Lars bicker between themselves, I shift position, trying to reduce the pain I’m in. My thighs still have that raw burn, and my shoulders are sending an ache up my neck. The least they could do while they debate my fate is help me get a little more comfortable. I wouldn’t be opposed to having my hands cuffed in front of me. Or having my ankles zip-tied to the chair legs. They need to get a little creative, is all.

That cup of ice-cold water is taunting me too, and if this is torture, they’re doing it right.

“Could have led someone here—” Lars is saying.

St. Clare talks over him. “I’m the one who brought him here, and like you said, we weren’t followed. So what’s the issue?”