Cage had a bruise on the side of his face. It hadn't yet bloomed full purple yet, but he could feel that it was going to. It pulled every time he spoke, but he worked not to let any of it show.
He'd known from the moment he’d been hauled in here that it was going to be a mess like this.
Wishing he had his gun with him was a strong desire, but also a recipe for disaster. If he had one, then everybody could have one. And these half-starved, angry, crazed fools would have killed everyone in seconds.
Just in case things couldn’t get any more bizarre, he was now standing in the large central room of a cave.
There was only one person here who seemed older than Cage. That was concerning in and of itself. Cage also understood that, given his tall, lanky build, he was often mistaken for younger than he was. It was entirely possible he was getting underestimated. He wanted to let that stand—and pray that it was right—as long as he could.
The one man who was older sat quietly on a mattress in the corner, near him, a floor lamp glowed bright—one of several scattered around the space. His shoulders hunched in as though he might make himself small enough to disappear from the situation . . . and the violence that permeated the space.
One of the teenagers was running the show, and his initial greeting to Cage had been a cuff upside the head as soon as Connor had shoved him in and turned around. Cage had taken the expected move with as much grace as possible.
He'd wanted to get a better lay of the land, see how the group was working. It was clear from the moment he walked in that they'd set some sort of hierarchy. It was also clear that the hierarchy only came out when it was just them. Connor with his gun down the back of his pants clearly ruled over whatever hierarchy existed here.
But Connor had left hours ago.
Cage had been trying to sleep but had to do it with half an eye open. He had no allies here and he knew it.
Now, he was beyond hungry. He sat in the corner, his back against the rough stone wall, another old worn mattress on the floor his only furniture. There were no chairs in here. Probably these boys—because they weren’t men—couldn't be trusted with anything they could pick up and fling around like a weapon.
Cage had made it hard to get behind him and he'd done that on purpose. He needed to see all comers and get as much sleep as possible. Aside from his rough entry, the place had stayed mostly quiet during the day.
The big teenager in charge, his long lanky hair greasy from lack of care, sat with his knees up, forearms resting across the tops, hands dangling as if to say he could afford to not be ready. Cage knew the stance. The kid would glare around the room as the others slept off and on.
As far as Cage could tell, Teen Woof there didn't sleep.
He himself had been up for over twenty-four hours. Still, he’d managed to drift off a few times. More than once he hadn't realized he'd done it until a fist caught him upside the head, right in the forming bruise.
When it happened again, he realized he’d been out cold. Not surprising, but he jolted awake. He managed not to yelp and looked up.
“Food’s here,” Teen Woof announced. “You don't get any.”
Cage stood then, his one apparent advantage his height. Looking down at the weasel, Cage wondered, was he the only one in here tall enough to do so?
No, the man sitting in the corner trying to disappear into the peeling paint would be taller. But he probably never stood to his full height.
“I eat,” Cage announced to Teen Woof in his most simple tone.
The kid’s retaliation was clear in the crunch of his expression into immediate rage at being countered. In the time it took for his hand to come swinging up, he telegraphed enough to tell Cage what was coming from a mile away.
With a sharp move upward with his left hand, Cage blocked the coming punch. A simple swing had him wrapping Teen Woof’s arm and controlling it now. His right hand snapped out, grabbing the throat of the young man who thought to attack him and control the food.
Cage pushed backwards while pulling on the arm, applying pressure to the throat but not enough to cause real damage. Just enough to hurt. He said only, “I eat. Everyone eats.”
Around him, dark eyes popped open wide, reflecting the dim light of the room. The tray of food had remained untouched, though clearly everyone was quite hungry.
As best Cage could tell, he and Aurora had arrived early in the morning. It was now late afternoon, judging by the slant of the one thin beam of light that came from some opening far above them. He hadn't seen other food come in here unless he’d slept through it, or the group had been given breakfast before he arrived. If they had, it wasn't going to be a Continental hotel thing, he knew.
It was possible none of them had eaten since this time yesterday.
But Teen Woof wasn’t taking Cage’s simple statements well.
Sure enough, a foot quickly came out. Cage was quicker.
He was playing some of his most valuable cards early, letting them all know that he could do this. For a brief moment, he sent up a prayer of thanks for all the times that he'd had to run five miles and his knees had hurt and his parents had told him, “You can quit. But if you quit, you don't get the black belt and you only have two more miles to go.”
He'd understood then that where he was was zero. Except it was so close to the goal. In the end, he and Joule had each gotten a second degree belt in MMA. By the time he'd made it out of his early belt classes and into the upper levels, the school had been teaching the kids how to fight dirty if they had to.
So now he did.