Page 106 of Lucky 14

Wyatt makes an impatient motion. “If you run, I’ll shoot you.”

I don’t want to. Everything in me screams not to, but what choice do we have? Wyatt guides us down the hallway toward an area of the villa I’ve never been to. Then, we’re on the porch. The rain patters down onto the cement, and the humidity hits us with a wave of wet air.

“Go.” Wyatt gives an impatient bark, herding us toward a golf cart.

Instinct is pumping adrenaline through my veins, but I don’t know what to do. All I know is not to run.

We get on the cart, and Wyatt drives with one hand, the other on the gun. We drive for a bit, the dark forest flashing by and rain splattering over us. The looming woods remind me of my first night here, and I’m flooded with another wash of terror. This place isn’t safe at night.

Oakley’s hand finds mine, and he squeezes again. The touch grounds me, making my chest squeeze with some kind of warmth. I look over at him, but it’s too dark to see much. I just squeeze back, trying to focus on breathing in and out, in and out. We can do this. We just have to get Kyan back out again.

Soon, there’s a light between the trees, and before I realize it, we’re pulling up to a one-story, long building. Wyatt pulls up right in front, unlocking the door and herding us inside.

It’s dark inside, and I stand stiffly, unsure where he brought us. Is this a separate torture chamber? I find myself gripping Oakley’s hand tightly, pressing my body to him. He’s warm, and I’m suddenly so cold.

Wyatt flips the lights on, and I see we’re in some sort of…living room. He then goes to a closet and rummages around. I blink, staring at it. There are a few couches, vases of decorative bamboo, a TV, and, further down, a kitchen. There are a few lamps and some pictures on the wall. It looks oddly…regular. Like any of the houses from back home.

“Hands,” Wyatt snaps. He has zip ties in his hands, and he’s holding them out. Immediately, I remember what happened the last time he zip-tied me.

“Wait—”

“I think there’s some sort of misunderstanding,” Oakley starts, “Kyan⁠—”

Panic shoots into me, and I elbow Oakley, interrupting, “We aren’t working with anyone. We’re here by mistake.”

Oakley can’t talk about Kyan. We have no idea how Wyatt and Kyan get along, or if they even know about each other. By the way they act, I’m guessing not. Well, if I can’t remember much, I can make an educated guess. If it’s a dissociative disorder, then that means that the brain forgets things on purpose. Things that are too painful. If we start making Wyatt remember, that could be the worst thing to happen.

Wyatt doesn’t seem to care. He just zip-ties both our hands and shoves us down on the couch.

“What—” Oakley hisses.

“Just shut the fuck up,” I say lowly. Blessedly, Oakley listens.

Wyatt looks over at us, and for a second, I’m terrified that he heard what we were talking about. Oakley reaches over to grab my hands, even though they’re tied.

Wyatt disappears, and when he comes back, he looks at us for a good long while. It makes me squirm, and that makes me angry. What does he want? Why won’t he say anything?

His dark eyes just evaluate us in a way that makes me feel like we’re deer and he’s staring at us like a hunter in the stands.

Finally, he blinks. “Kiss.”

What? I stare at him. Did I hear that correctly?

“You heard me.” Wyatt’s voice is soft. “Kiss.”

I look over at Oakley, who gives me a wide-eyed look, then look back at Wyatt. He’s just silent, staring at us, and I analyze every microexpression. This doesn’t seem like a Wyatt thing to say. Is this Kyan? Another alter we don’t know?

The tiniest of smirks crosses his face.

Oakley’s knee brushes mine, and I suck in a breath.

“Kiss her?” Oakley asks.

My heart is racing, and it feels hard to pull in a breath. It’s not that I don’t find Oakley attractive. In fact, I do. I love his sharp cheekbones and dark hair. But when I look at the person across the couch from us, I feel anger. He’s manipulating us, and he knows it. He knows we’re stuck playing the game. Kyan is our only hope at escaping this place. We need to keep him happy.

So, I lean close to Oakley, till his breath is brushing my face. His eyes dart between mine rapidly, like he’s trying to read my thoughts.

“You good?” I whisper.