Page 42 of Property of Necro (Kings Of Anarchy MC: Illinois #1)

Chapter

Thirty-One

Groaning, I awaken from the most horrible death.

My mouth tastes like roadkill, and my head, ugh , pounds like I tried to outdrink a sailor and forgot I’m a lightweight.

I need water, meds, and a toothbrush with the mintiest toothpaste, in that order.

I blink once, twice, three times, to orient myself, but no light penetrates.

It’s black— black black. I can’t see a damn thing.

Wiggling around, I try to move my arms, and my knuckles hit what sounds hollow, like wood.

I try to sit up, and my forehead hits the same thing, inches from my face.

The scent of sawdust and damp earth fills the air.

I try to bend my knees. Nope. More wood.

Moving my arms or legs to the side, I have maybe five inches of wiggle room.

This isn’t good.

My heart ratchets into my throat.

I swallow it down and try like hell not to freak out.

It’s okay.

I’m okay.

It’s going to be okay .

I’m alive.

I’m breathing.

I inhale deeply to prove that yes, even though I can’t see, I am alive. There is oxygen.

A bald man plied me with drinks and kidnapped me. That’s what happened, right? I didn’t dream that. Now I’m stuffed in a box, container, thingy, and it smells like fresh-cut wood.

Holding my breath, I listen.

Beyond the blood rushing through my ears are muffled voices.

“Hello!” I croak, clear my throat, and try again, louder this time. “Hello!” I knock on the container and push up. It doesn’t budge. Not even a little.

“Hello! Hello! I don’t know who locked me in this box, but I promise not to hurt you too much when you let me the fuck out!

” I yell, pushing what I can, with little leverage to do fuckall.

I grunt and yell, and before long, a cold sweat breaks across my skin as I start to panic.

If only I could see. I need to see. Then maybe I’ll know where I am.

More voices carry, but nobody acknowledges my plea.

I scream and it echoes in the box, making my ears ring. The pounding in my skull intensifies, and I wince, but I need out! This is worse than the casket. This is worse than the closet.

My mother flashes in my mind… standing at the doorway, taunting me, smiling like an evil witch with her disheveled hair and clothes three sizes too big. She’s pale with yellow teeth. She signs at me, telling me how useless I am, how I deserve this, that I did this to myself.

“Go away!” I screech and shake my head to rid myself of her presence. I don’t need her here. I don’t need her to remind me that I fucked up. I drank those drinks and left with that man. A man I don’t even know. But I didn’t ask for this. I wanted to get laid, not buried.

Wait.

Buried.

I’m…

I knock against the side of the box.

Coffin.

I’m in a fucking coffin.

“This isn’t funny!” I kick the top of the box with my toes, and pain ripples up my feet and calves.

Is this punishment because I left? Did Coffin find me and decide I should join the others? That makes sense, right? I wasn’t supposed to go, and the price for those who do is death.

Tears leak from the corners of my eyes as my nose stings with the urge to sob, but I squash the itch.

If I’m to die, I won’t beg for mercy or weep like a child.

I won’t give them the satisfaction. In the afterlife, I will haunt them day and night until they beg for death. That will be my retribution.

For what feels like hours, I hold my overfull bladder like an Olympic champion and retreat into myself.

Channeling Kali, I call on the witchy, meditative stuff she taught us in one of her many yoga-mat sitting, eyes-closed, mantra-mumbling sessions.

I fumble through what I remember and become one with the earth.

In through my nose, I inhale, hold it for five, and blow out through my mouth, humming.

My muscles relax as I float in a sea of calm.

My tears dry, and my pulse returns to normal.

I must fall asleep. When I come to, I’m shivering, but nothing else has changed.

Except…

More voices carry, closer than before. Male voices. Deep and angry.

Swallowing what I can of my overly dry mouth, I lick my lips. “Hello!” I try again, not expecting much. “Hello! I really need to use the restroom. I don’t want to pee on myself. That would ruin the craftsmanship of this lovely box!”

The gruff voices cease.

I take this as my cue to keep yelling. “Hi! I’ve been trying to reach you about your car’s extended warranty!”

Wait. No.

“Motorcycle! I’m here to teach you… no. Fuck!” I hit the side of the box. “Reach you about your motorcycle’s warranty! The extended one! Now, please let me out of here!”

A thump vibrates through my box, followed by a loud clang , and I brace, ready for the worst.

“Sola?”

Oh. Thank heavens.

“Rot!?”

There’s a scuffle on top of my coffin.

“Hold on, just give me a minute. Don’t worry. I’ll get you outta there,” he promises, voice muffled.

“Okay,” I squeak, not at all on the verge of losing it. Nope. Not at all. I’m all woman here. Strong. Big brass balls. All of it.

“Dammit,” Rot grunts. “Hold on. I’ve almost got it.” Another grunt and a slew of cursing follow. There’s a crack as the seal is broken, and the groan of wood, then sweet, sweet fresh air. I fill my lungs with it, even though it smells more like worms with the lid open.

Growling, Rot shoves the top off the side and into the… grave. Yep. I’m in an actual grave, six feet down, and he’s standing on something, and…

I look way up, beyond the creepy nightmare-fuel, human-sized hole in the ground, and gasp at the water-colored sky streaked with pinks and oranges.

Wiping the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand, Rot discards the wetness on the side of his holey jeans before offering it to me.

I sit up. “Did you wait for the sky to look like that before saving me? That’s kind of dramatic, isn’t it?”

He snickers. “Good to see you haven’t lost your sense of humor.”

“This is fucked up.” I gesture to the coffin.

Rot shakes his hand for me to take. I use it to stand, and then he steps into the box with me.

“How are we supposed to get out of here?” I ask, looking around, knowing I can’t climb up dirt walls and Rot might be tall, but climbing vertically with no footholds will take some time.

“Joe!” Rot calls, and in slides a ladder.

We use it to climb out. Rot lets me go first. Once we’re on solid ground and not hanging out in my grave, I shake out my limbs, spare another glance at the incredible sky, and run to the giant monument in the middle of the cemetery. Hiding from the men, I squat down and relieve myself.

“Don’t judge me,” I whisper to the ghosts of the dead women who live here. “I had to go, and at least none of you were buried alive.”

Rot peeks around the corner and laughs. He hands me a towel, which I use to wipe with before I stand.

“You have a lot of explaining to do.” I wag my finger at him, just now noticing his lip is busted and he has a cut on his cheek, weeping blood.

Smoothing a hand down the front of my dress, I hiss in pain as I cross a familiar spot. Lifting the hem, I inspect the C scar. It’s been freshly carved open, and there’s dried blood all over it and my panties.

“Coffin,” I growl, shaking my head at how fucking ridiculous this all is.

“Yes. Coffin,” Rot confirms, running a hand through his dark hair.

“That asshole buried me alive,” I announce, needing to hear the words for myself. He. Buried. Me. Alive.

Offering me his open palm, I clasp my hand in Rot’s and we climb the hill together, up to the barn. On the floor just inside, Coffin’s tied with rope—arms and ankles. Standing beside him…

“You!” I hiss, pointing at the guy who drugged and kidnapped me.

He throws his hands up in surrender. “I was doing them a favor.” He jerks his chin to the two pain-in-the-ass bikers.

“A favor?!” Releasing Rot, I march up to the man and slap him across the face.

Head swinging to the side and back again, red blooms across his cheek, and he nods, accepting his fate.

I turn to Coffin, who’s bloodied and bruised, snarling on the floor.

His nostrils flare when he sees me, and he snaps his teeth like a monster.

I kneel next to him, and Rot swoops in to pull me out of the way. “Oh. No. We’re not doing this, Red.”

“Not doing what?” I ask at the same time Coffin spits blood on the ground and snarls, “Fuck you, cunt. You’re gonna die.”

Oh, yeah? That’s how it’s gonna be?

“Well, you already tried that, asshole!” I kick at him as Rot wraps his arms around me from behind and lifts me off the floor like I’m a toddler, not a grown woman.

The infuriating hottie chuckles in my ear as I wriggle in his arms, getting angrier by the second. “Does anyone care to tell me why I’m here? What the hell is wrong with him? And who the fuck are you?!” I point two very stern fingers at the man who drugged me.

Leaving the bald man with Coffin, Rot carries me to a chair where he forces me to sit.

He hands me a bottle of water that he cracks open.

Glowering at him, I take a swig as he drapes a fresh towel over my legs and opens a granola bar.

“Eat.” He shoves it at me, and I comply, keeping my eyes peeled. I don’t trust anyone. Not anymore.

Rot paces back and forth in front of me while I eat. When I’m finished, he takes the trash, throws it away, and approaches me again, cautious.

“I didn’t want you to leave,” he confesses, and some itty-bitty part of me is pleased to hear that.

“And I didn’t ask to leave.”

He stuffs his hands into his front pockets. “I know. That was all Necro doin’ what he does best… self-preservation shit.”

“Okay?” If he thinks that’s a valid explanation, it isn’t. “And Coffin?”

“We’ve been keepin’ tabs on you.”

I lean back in my chair and stare up at him, waiting for answers. “Okay?”