It’s my eighth day here. My family still hasn’t found me, and I hope they don’t. Not for a little while longer.
“God, tell my mom and dad I’m okay,” I mutter to the ceiling. “Tell themnot to worry.”
I can only imagine how worried they must be. If I could speak to them, I’d tell them I’m fine, and there’s no need to rush to find me.
When they find me, I’ll ask my dad to forgive my captor. He’ll agree. I know my father too well. A few tears, and it will all be taken care of.
After that, I’ll tell the grumpy tyrant that I want him.
I don’t fully understand what I feel for him. But I know it’s not just attraction. And I’m sure he feels something for me too.
My smile fades. That feeling isn’t his priority, though. Revenge is. Revenge against my uncle.
The sound of the door opening pulls me out of my daydream. The man I’ve been thinking about steps inside, into the room where I’m lying in his bed.
I sit up. He’s watching me from the doorway.
“You can come in. Feel free to think of this as your room.” I grin.
My joke earns me a smile, and a flash of that dimple in his cheek. I watch him, entranced.
I think this is love.I think I’m in love with him.The butterflies in my stomach agree immediately. I don’t know where it will take me. But I’m willing to go anywhere—from heaven to hell.
He comes into the room, toward me, removing his jacket and placing it on the bed. Not a single decent thought crosses my mind.
He’s wearing a gun harness strapped across his chest, over a gray shirt that matches his eyes. The harness clings to his muscles, highlighting the width of his shoulders, the narrowness of his waist.The man is a piece of art.
And I’m getting wet watching him armed.I don’t even like violence, so why does this look feel so hot?
He comes to my side of the bed and stops in front of the nightstand.
“Where’s Bruno?” I ask, drinking in the sight of his face and body so close to me.
The scent of cedarwood—in the sheets, in the room, most dominantly in this man—fills me completely.
“Eating in his room.”
He places his gun on the nightstand.
“You took him for a walk just now?”
It feels domestic. Like we’re a married couple discussing ordinary mornings.
“Yes.”
He pulls out another gun and sets it down beside the first.
I chuckle. “Don’t you think it’s dangerous to lay out weapons in front of your captive? I might kill you.”
His eyes meet mine. “No one can save me if you want to kill me.”
My heart gallops at his words. I choose to see them as romantic, said with full knowledge of how I’d take them. And I’d also like to add: he definitely feels something for me. This isn’t one-sided.
I tilt my head, watching him work the harness free.Does a person need a whole tactical setup just to walk a dog? Or was he out there doing something else?
No. No, he wasn’t doing anything bad.My delusional brain has already decided:he just wears guns around to feel fancy.
I lean back against the headboard.
