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I hear more items being shifted around on the surface beside me. It’s interesting to hear about my kidnapping and the aftermath being told from a stranger’s perspective. I am relieved to hear I have no broken bones, and better yet, an unbroken skull. I’m even more fascinated and curious as to why these men seem to be doting over me, and the calm one who spent the night here to make sure I was going to be okay. I’m left perplexed.
“I was pretty pissed last night, Nick. I came close to snapping the bastard’s neck.” I can hear Travis inhale a large breath then exhale slowly in an effort to calm himself down. I can feel his tension whirling around me. “I have the full report on who did what, but I figured before I snapped any necks, you’d want to decide their fate.”
I’d hate to piss this man off. The tone of his words seem to hold serious promise, like he snaps necks every day and doesn’t blink an eye. He sounds so ruthless and cutthroat, and my heart rate speeds up, wondering how merciless he will be with me if I don’t walk his line. How can he sound so soft and calm one second, and then turn his emotions around on a dime, portraying a callous, brutal killer the next? The thought sends a shiver down my spine.
“Damn right, I want to handle this personally. The bastard’s mine,” Nick says with seething disdain. “This one here…she’s a special one. They knew she was to be handled with kid gloves. It’s inexcusable; they had strict orders, someone messed up, and now they’re going to pay.”
I don’t get why these guys are so pissed; they are, after all, criminals. In all the movies I’ve seen and all the books I’ve read, this isn’t typical bad-guy behavior. Willing to risk a sneak peek, I’m more curious to see who these men are. Slowly, I begin to squint my eyes, willing them to open.
I discover the room is dimly lit, which is a huge blessing for my headache. A large shadow shifts in my peripheral vision, and I’m suddenly aware of a strong, male scent wafting around me. His leather and soap smell seems to put me at ease.
I become aware of the fact that I’m lying on top of a soft, comfortable bed and snuggled under a warm, fluffy cloud of a comforter. A soft pillow is cradling the back of my bruised head. I thought when people are captured, they are supposed to get beat up then wake in a cold, dank room on a concrete floor behind a locked door. Not that I’m complaining by any means.
The edge of the mattress begins to dip down beside me. I feel a cool, large hand covering my forehead, checking for a temperature. His touch is gentle and feels nice, which makes me believe I’m still partly-drugged. These were the bad guys, after all.
“She feels a little warm and clammy,” Travis’ rich tone sounds out above me. His voice is a security blanket for me, wrapping its warmth around me, providing a sense of protection even though I am their captive.
His one hand then slides down to the side of my face, cradling my cheek, carefully touching me as if I’m a piece of fine china. I don’t get it; why should he care? Who steals young women from inside the very safety of their home, ripping them away from the only family they’ve ever known? They are animals! I’m growing angry, and I want a look at these perps to call them out of a lineup. Opening my eyes further, a fuzzy silhouette of a large man comes into view.
“Hey there, you’re going to be okay. I’ve got you.” He sounds so warmhearted and compassionate as his thumb gently begins caressing my cheek in a soft stroke.
Deciding not to fight the tender touch, I sink further into the pillow, allowing myself a moment of selfish comfort. I can’t deny that for some strange reason, he seems to have a calming effect on all my senses. I let the feel of his touch spread warmth throughout my battered body, distracting me from the aches and pains.
Now that my eyes have fully adjusted to the dim light, I manage to shift my head in his direction, which is a big mistake. Throbbing pain takes over, and drums begin beating against my head. Immediately, I feel both of his hands cupping my face, gently caressing my cheeks with his thumbs using feather-light strokes.
“Ssshh, don’t try to move,” he whispers. “Just relax and let the pain meds take hold, sweetheart.”
Oh, my God, I’d consider having a headache every day if I could hear this man call me sweetheart. Like a camera lens coming into focus, I now have a clear picture of the man before me. In my skewed vision, I can tell he is good-looking. His hair is dark brown and cut short but with enough hair to run one’s fingers through. The look is sexy.
