Page 19 of Marked

Chapter 12

Riley

Three days have passed since Cain’s declaration. Three days of silence, three days of preparation, three days of despair.

Three days of me trying to figure out how the hell I can get out of this alive. My plan of establishing a bond with Cain that would keep him from handing me over has come to an abrupt halt ever since that night he punished me. It’s not because I changed my mind or came up with anything better—I simply don’t get the chance to try anymore.

Because we haven’t been alone for more than a few minutes ever since. He doesn’t even join me down in my basement cell anymore.

And I’m pretty sure that’s no coincidence. Cain wants it this way. He keeps me at a distance and always sends one of the other guys down to bring me food or to fetch me to come upstairs. Luckily, it’s never the ugly brute who tried to force himself on me but the other guy, the one he calls Kyle. He’s no less intimidating and revolting, but at least he never tried to take something from me that I wasn’t willing to give.

I only see Cain in his office or the small room with the laptops where he took me on our first trip upstairs. The house we’re staying at is quite big, but I’ve only seen a small part of it, always walking the same paths as I follow Cain or his henchman—who never walks me without handcuffs attached to my wrists.

My hands are not cuffed now, and the man walking next to me is not the unsettling henchman, but Cain himself. It’s the first time in days that he’s the one accompanying me downstairs. I don’t know what to make of it. Should I try to lure him closer to me? And if so, to what end? To make him speak or to make him break his deal with that other person?

Who was he speaking to? The Covey? Was everything he told me a lie? Are they in cahoots together? Or was he talking to the group he and Kyle referred to as ‘Scivolas’? Who are they? And why did Cain refuse to let me in on anything when I asked him about it? The moment that name slipped from Kyle’s tongue, I could see the panic rising on Cain’s face, especially when his eyes met mine. He’s hiding something from me, and the more he refuses to answer, the more afraid I become. I can’t trust anything he says, so I’m left on my own.

I’ve been searching for possible escape routes every single time, making sure not to let my curious gaze latch onto any door, hallway or window for too long so as not to draw any suspicion to myself. I know that it’s unlikely—if not impossible—that I could actually make a run for it. It would never work, even if I set my mind to it.

Yet, I can’t allow myself to give up. I need to be attentive, to be alert and always ready to flee if the opportunity should present itself. If Cain refuses to be honest with me, he clearly has no intention of letting me go. Otherwise, he would have said something when I gave him the chance to come clean, right?

Did he even notice? Did he see the question in my eyes that day? Did he understand that I was trying to make him speak to me?

I want to believe that I saw this kind of realization in his eyes when they locked onto mine that day, but it might as well have been my imagination playing a cruel trick on me.

I wish I could just ask him. I wish I could talk to him openly and expect the same openness in return. But I can’t. It feels as if I would hand him my only weapon and hope of survival if I let him know that I overheard him on the phone and have reason to believe that he’s lying to me.

Maybe he wouldn’t even want to go through with the original plan anymore if he knew that I’m aware of his betrayal. Maybe he would rob me of the only chance I have left to get away from this.

The night of the so-called rendezvous.

He opens the door for me and I step inside the room before him, my shoulders pulled up to my ears as I wait to see whether he’ll follow me or close the door from the outside. I hear steps behind my back, approaching, then the door falls shut.

I turn around to find him standing right before me, a stern face pinning me in place as he studies me.

“How are you doing?”

His question takes me by surprise. I throw a confused frown at him, subtly shaking my head as I try to feel out his intention. Is he serious right now?

“How am I doing?” I repeat, my voice dripping with indignation. “What do you want me to say to that, Cain?”

Anger blossoms on his face, and I half expect him to turn around on the spot and leave.

But he doesn’t. He just stands there, his dark eyes probing into mine with such intensity that it makes my heart race with mixed emotions.

“You’ve been quiet lately,” Cain murmurs. “Too quiet.”

“Focused,” I correct him. “I have a lot to learn, a lot to remember, and a fucking stressful weekend ahead of me—to say the least. Excuse me if I might not be in the mood for funny chit-chat or—”

“Fine!” he cuts me off. “I’m already sorry I asked.”

My heart sinks when he turns his back to me, letting out a deep sigh before he adds, “You must be hungry.”

I shake my head on instinct, simply because I don’t want to give him the satisfaction of being right. It doesn’t matter, because he neither sees my reaction nor acknowledges it.

“Kyle will bring you a sandwich,” he announces, making a move toward the door.

“I don’t want a sandwich!” I blurt out so loudly that it makes him stop mid-step.

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