I grin and start singing along, directing the lyrics at him.“I can watch you all night.”
“Every move, every glow, every spark in the light.”I’m dancing now, singing louder.
By the time we hit“Turn it up, don’t slow down, We don’t need the world around.”Bruno catches on and starts jumping with me.
I’m singing at the top of my lungs, Bruno howling along—we’re making enough noise to get arrested in America. The tyrant who owns this house will probably show up, but we’re not stopping until he does.
The next song kicks in—“Low”—and I’m in full party girl mode. I can only imagine how ridiculous I look, twerking in a bathrobe that’s three sizes too big, now permanently promoted to nightdress.
Bruno’s party girl mode is something worth watching. He braces his front legs and hops side to side on his hind legs, his tail the true showstopper, wagging like mad.
I laugh and dance until I’m breathless—from both. Laughing too hard to keep my balance, I collapse onto the floor. Bruno bounds around me, his energy skyrocketing. He’s unstoppable now, pouncing on me.
I’m laughing as he plants his paws on my shoulders and licks my face in rapid, joyful bursts. He drops down, I scramble up, and we’re at it again.
But then I make the mistake of glancing at the open archway. My dancing freezes, my laughter dies, as my eyes meet his—dark and cold from across the room.
He’s standing there, arms crossed over his chest.How long has he been standing there?I thought he’d scold me and order me, in that icy tone, to turn off the music, maybe even follow it with a list of threats. But he does none of that.
Is he okay?
I walk toward him, grinning.
“Care to join?” I tease, which is basically jumping into a volcano.
“Stop this circus.”
I step closer and set my hands on his broad shoulders. Maybe it’s the aftereffect of dancing that’s made me stupidly brave. Or maybe I’m just suicidal.
“You kidnapped this circus and brought it home. Now face the consequences.” I raise my voice slightly so he can hear me over the music—though it’s not that loud.
“It would take me less than a minute to correct my mistake.” He doesn’t raise his voice.
I smirk. “So you admit kidnapping me was a mistake?”
“Letting you think you can do as you wish is the mistake.” He lets each word settle between us.
I drop my arms and take a deep breath. His scent—cedarwood and mint—instantly fills my lungs.
“Why aren’t you torturing me?” The question has been stuck in my head all day.
He shifts his gaze from me to the speaker. I glance at it, then back at him.
“Wait. Let me turn it off.”
I scramble to the light, turn it on, and shut off the speaker. But when I turn, he’s gone.
I purse my lips.What were you thinking, Wen? That he’d just sit down and have a nice conversation with you?
I plant my hands on my hips, frustrated with myself.Why do I even want to talk to him? We’re not old friends. He’s holding me captive, for god’s sake. Keeping me from my family. Making them worry.
I don’t even want to think about it. I can’t imagine what my family is going through—all because this man thinks torturing a man’s daughter because her father killed his is reasonable.
I slump onto the couch, frowning.
Something is wrong.
My eyes go wide.Is this Stockholm syndrome?
