I made a mistake. I did the one thing I have always been told never to do. Hesitate. I let the enemy get inside my head, and use my weakness to their advantage. Now, everything has gone to shit.

After I lowered my gun, I was instructed to toss it, along with my purse, into the back floorboard and am then led by gunpoint to the black SUV with Tennessee plates that I am willing to bet are stolen or bogus. A pile of cigarette butts lie on the ground outside the passenger side door. Noticing they all look to be the same kind, it is clear to me that they have more than likely been following us, waiting for the perfect opportunity. Schrader and I had been so distracted, both before and after the appointment, that we missed them completely.

Everything about this has me kicking myself.

After getting me to their vehicle, I was forced into the backseat and my wrists zip tied to a hook bolted to the back of the seat in front of me. The man with the pipe, whose name turns out to be Smith, took his time driving us out of town, making so many turns that I begin getting nauseous.

When Smith finally pulls up to a set of tall black gates, the clock on the stereo says we have been driving for nearly two hours. Reaching out, he punches a bunch of numbers into a keypad, then the gate begins to open. Though I try, I only make out three of the numbers he punched in. The paved road has large trees on both sides all the way up to an enormous four-story house that makes our clubhouse look like a shack.

The asshole with the gun, who goes by Malcolm, flings open the door. Pulling a knife from the front pocket of his navy blue dress pants, he exposes the blade and looks me up and down carefully. Swallowing hard, I shift as far away from him as I can. Not showing him any fear, but not about to let this fucker come at me with some knife and not pull away before I know what he plans to do with the damn thing. “Don’t give me any shit,” he warns, yanking my arm until I am at the edge of the seat before cutting me free from the hook. Shoving his knife back into his pocket, he grabs my arm again and pulls me from the seat, my feet slamming to the ground so hard my teeth rattle. “Trust me. If I wanted you dead, you damn well would be.”

Ushering me inside the house, I am quickly lead through a brightly decorated foyer, with white marble tile, into a large den. There is a large blue and gold couch that looks like it cost more than my car and several matching chairs, all surrounding a black suede ottoman in the center of the room. Two full bookshelves take up two of the walls, and a large, big screen television is mounted above a white stone fireplace. The whole damn house looks like it came straight out of a high-end design magazine. If I weren’t brought here against my will, I might enjoy seeing how the other half live. Instead, I am scoping out every nook and cranny of the damn place, trying to figure out how I am going to get the hell out of here, the first chance I get.

“Sit,” Malcolm barks, pointing toward the center of the room.

Doing as he says, I take the chair farthest from him. Grabbing a remote control from the ottoman separating us, he drops down into the chair across from me and begins flipping through the channels. Crossing one leg over the other, I shift my body so that I am facing the bookshelves. I scan the shelves and walls, looking for photos or even a plague with a damn name on it in an attempt to piece together what is going on, or why I am here. This is easily the weirdest situation I have ever been thrown into in my entire life. I have been kidnapped by two men in business suits and am being held prisoner in a goddamn mansion.

Coming up empty handed, my mind drifts back to the guys, wishing I knew what was happening back in Legion Falls right now. I have no idea if Schrader is okay or if Pop is even alive after the ambush. My heart is an absolute shattered mess, but I refuse to let Malcom or Smith see weakness again. Pregnancy hormones be damned, I’d rather eat razor blades than let these assholes see me cry.

“You a Predators fan?”

“What?” I blurt, snapping my gaze to him.

“Hockey,” Malcom clarifies, settling back in his chair and propping his feet up on the ottoman. “Nashville’s got some fire in ‘em this year.”

“No,” I bite out. “Not a fan.”

“Being a rude bitch won’t get you anywhere around here, Sweetheart,” Malcolm says through gritted teeth, tossing the remote beside his feet, he stares at me, his eyes darkening. “Especially not with me.”

“Good thing I don’t give a fuck what you think,” I inform him, mustering up every ounce of strength I have. “I’m not stupid. I know for a fact you’re not the one callin’ the shots, Sweetheart.”

“Really?” Dropping his feet to the floor, he leans up in his seat. “Got it all figured out, do ya?”

“Enough to know that you wear that expensive three-piece suit to make you feel important, even though you’re nothing but an errand boy with a God complex.” Leaning back against the cushion, I smirk when he tugs at his collar and clears his throat. “You live on instilling fear into others and don’t like that I’m not trembling every time you speak.”

“That all?”

I shrug. “That, and as much as you want to kill me right now, you can’t; that doesn’t play into the plan of the guy who’s actually calling the shots.”

“Plenty of ways to shut you up that don’t involve killing you,” he seethes, his fingers digging into the arms of the chair. “If you’re smart, Cheyenne, you’ll realize you have good reason to be afraid of a man like me. Every threat I make is a promise I fully intend to keep.” Pushing to his feet, he steps around the ottoman towards me, his jaw ticking angrily. “Including the one where I kill your man. I sincerely doubt you want the death of another club member on your conscience.”

“Fuck you,” I spit angrily.

“Uh oh,” Malcolm taunts, clicking his tongue. “Looks like I struck a nerve. Tell me, Cheyenne, how does it feel knowing that everyone you love is going to die and there’s nothing you can do to stop it?”

“Don’t count me out because I’m a woman, asshole,” I warn, pushing to my feet. “You’d be surprised what I’m capable of when backed into a corner.”

“You wouldn’t talk to me that way if you knew who I was, Bitch,” he challenges, towering over me.

“I may not know who you are, but I know what you are,” I inform him, not backing down. He arches a brow, silently baiting me as he waits for my answer. I smile. “Dead man walkin’.”

“You were instructed to make my guest comfortable,” an eerily calm voice says, making me jump. “Not upset her.” My eyes snap to the doorway as a man, who looks to be about the same age at Pop, steps toward us. He wears black dress pants, with a crisp white shirt and a blood red tie. His auburn hair has traces of gray. “It isn’t her fault for our predicament, any more than it is mine.”

“She’s got a mouth on her,” Malcolm blurts in his own defense.

“Which you rightly earned from what I’ve overheard,” the man replies. Working the cuffs loose on his shirt, he begins rolling them to above his elbows, exposing forearms filled with black tattoos, strung together with blue and gold bands. On one arm, there are stitches inked over a large scar that wraps around his forearm from wrist to elbow. Stopping in front of me, he gives me a warm smile and extends his hand. “Hello, Cheyenne. I’m Maxwell Teague.”

The name Teague instantly registering in my mind. “You blew up our shop.”

My eyes drop to his hand, but I make no move to shake it. He nods, seeming impressed with me. “Leave us,” he says to Malcolm, but keeps his eyes on me. “Cheyenne and I have a lot to talk about.”

Malcolm glares at me, his nostrils flaring. “I’ll be in the kitchen.”

“Have Sarah bring the tray in.”

Malcolm’s body stiffens, clearly not happy with being ordered around. “Sure thing, Dad.” Turning his back to us, he storms for the door.

Dad?

Walking around the ottoman, Teague switches off the television before taking a seat in the chair Malcolm was in moments ago. “I apologize. My son shouldn’t have spoken to you that way. He’s been taught to respect women.”

“As opposed to kidnapping them,” I snort, sitting back down slowly.

“I’m afraid that was my call. A bit callous but necessary, I’m afraid; my hand has been forced.” Leaning back in the chair, he rubs the tips of his fingers together. “My strike needed to send a message as well as provide me an advantage.”

“Well, I hate to disappoint you, Mr. Teague, but killing me isn’t going to send a message,” I inform him. “It signs your death warrant.”

An older woman with short red hair walks into the room, carrying a tray filled with a covered plate, various cans of soda, a bottle of water, and a coffee cup. “Where would you like it, Mr. Teague?”

Sitting up, Teague clears his throat. “Here on the ottoman is fine. Thank you, Sarah.”

Settling the tray between us, she quickly lifts the lid off a plate, exposing some fruit, along with some sliced meats and cheeses. Looking up at me, she gives me a warm smile. “I wasn’t sure what you’d like, Ma’am.”

“I’m fine, thank you,” I tell her, forcing myself to return her smile. After all, it isn’t her fault I am here.

“That will be all, Sarah,” Teague says, dismissing her. “Close the doors on your way out. I want to be sure we won’t be bothered.”

“Yes, Sir,” she replies, doing as he instructed.

Taking the coffee from the tray, he blows the steam away before taking a quick drink. “For the record, I have no intention of hurting you. You don’t get to my position by being so uncontrolled.”

“You expect me to believe you sent your son and some goon with a pipe to kidnap me all so they could drive me two hours for a friendly conversation?” I snort skeptically, arching my brow.

“Of course not.” Taking another drink, he places the cup back on the tray. “We all have our roles to play, Cheyenne. You’re no different. However, I don’t see a need to kill in order to get what I want. In my opinion, taking a life ends the ability for further communication between two parties. However, I am a firm believer in manipulating a situation in a way that always insures I have the upper hand. That’s why you’re here.” Pushing the tray toward me, he jerks his chin in the direction of the plate of food. “You really should have something. If not for you, think about your baby.”

“My child isn’t up for discussion, Mr. Teague,” I snap, angry that this asshole knows things like this about me. His calm and cool demeanor has me wanting to claw his eyes out. It is literally taking everything I have in me not to maul him like a fucking cougar and make a run for it.

Which is stupid and reckless.

I am not naïve enough to believe the only people on this property, other than myself, are the four that I have seen. It is safe to say Maxwell Teague has an armed to the teeth security team covering every square inch of the grounds, twenty-four-seven. I may not be bound and gagged, but I am a prisoner nonetheless. He may not kill me himself, but his cockiness tells me there are plenty of people who would jump to do anything he asks without hesitation.

Teague is cocky. That much is clear to me immediately. If he really has no intention of killing me, there is only one other reason a man as calculating as him had no qualms about bringing me to his home. He believes he is invincible here. That no one can touch him, or hold him accountable for his actions.

It is exactly that arrogance that will be his downfall.

“We are very much alike, you and I,” he says, pulling me from my thoughts.

“I’ll have to take your word for it,” I deadpan, my eyes dropping to the unlit fireplace. “You’ll have to forgive me if I don’t see a mirror image of myself when I look at you.”

“Fair enough,” he replies with a quick nod of his head. “However, appearances can be deceiving, as I’m sure you know. After all, we both put our trust in a man who lied right to our faces.”

“Ah,” I sigh, reading into his agenda all too well. Of course this is about Troy. “The difference between you and me is that I’ve accepted the sting of betrayal and owned my own guilt in it, instead of waging some vendetta against the other wronged parties all to make myself feel better about getting egg on my face. Troy got one over on all of us, good for him. It cost his ass in the end.”

“You’ve moved on, which is commendable. However, that also means you’ve accepted your losses, as most people in your situation would. That can’t have been easy.” Leaning up, he braces his elbows on his knees, his face turning hard and serious. “Another difference between you and I, Cheyenne, is that I refuse to lose. Especially in business.”

“What does that even mean?” I ask, completely confused. “I don’t understand who you’re trying to beat here. Troy’s dead. Weren’t you the one who told Stone that Ivy killed him to begin with? If you ask me, this entire mess should’ve died right along with him.”

“I’m afraid the situation has escalated exponentially,” he informs me. “This has become about much more than the betrayal of a dirty middle man.”

“Yeah,” I deadpan, rolling my eyes. “It’s become a rich man’s temper tantrum.”

Stepping around the ottoman, he towers over me, dark eyes blazing and nostrils flaring. Suddenly, the family resemblance between Maxwell and Malcolm is very clear to me. Dropping his hands to the arms of the chair on either side of me, he leans in close. “Whether you like it or not, Cheyenne, you’re a part of this. You can continue to make things harder on yourself by trying my patience and hospitality, but I suggest you bite that razor-sharp tongue of yours and cooperate. I’d hate for you to find out what kind of monster I become when the time calls for it.”

I swallow hard, his piercing glare sending a shiver down my spine. “You said you weren’t going to hurt me. That you don’t kill people to get what you want.”

“I did.” Teague flashes a sinister, bone-chilling smile that has dread settling in my chest like a lead weight. “I never promised the safety of anyone else. Did I, Cheyenne? Are you willing to live with that risk?”

My shoulders slump, the breath rushing out of me at the idea of anyone I love being hurt, or killed, because of something I did to piss this fucker off. “What do you need me to do?” I ask, swallowing back the emotions that threaten to spill over.

Straightening, Teague nods in satisfaction. “Eat.” Making his way back around the ottoman, he takes his seat again before reaching for his coffee. “Then, we have a phone call to make.”