Page 42 of Stolen By the Enemy

If we were really a couple, I would get him more of this scent. I really like it.

I go into the kitchen, and I sit on the counter and watch as he moves skilfully around, taking some steak out of the fridge, adding vegetables to the pan, and pouring us each a glass of wine.

I’m not sure that alcohol is a good idea right now, but I don’t interrupt him to refuse my glass.

“Tell me about what you want from life,” he says, looking up from the pan he’s cooking with.

“Oh,” I say. I’m surprised by his words. Maybe he’s taking pity on me since I was visibly sad earlier.

“Well, I love sketching, and I’d like to go to art school, maybe. I’ve also always wanted to travel before I settle down and have a few kids. Maybe I can raise them by the sea.”

I say the last part while staring out at the ocean.

It’s not something I had thought of before, but being so close to the water for this long has deepened my love of the sea air and sounds.

Marco clears his throat and continues cooking. He doesn’t answer me.

When he’s done, we take the food into the dining room and eat at the table, opposite each other.

The conversation is easier than it was in the bedroom.

We speak about the places we’ve each traveled to, what our favorite kinds of places are, and where we’d love to go next.

This feels a lot more like it did the first night I met Marco, way before he had even thought of kidnapping me.

He still seems a bit wary, though, and I notice he barely touches his wine tonight.

I also don’t drink much, feeling sick from this morning’s events and just needing some calmness to relax my nervous system.

When dinner is done, Marco asks if I want to sit in the living room, but this time he opens up the big glass doors so that the evening air can flood the room.

This seems to be an act of trust because he doesn’t look worried that I’m going to run out of the doors.

Although I did notice that he brought his gun into the living room with us, so maybe that is what makes him feel so secure, sitting here with the doors wide open.

He sits on the single chair, and I curl up with my legs underneath me on the big couch.

We continue talking, there seems to be so much that he needs to get off his chest.

I ask him to tell me about his childhood. He looks hesitant at first but then takes a deep breath.

“Carlos and I, we grew up together," he begins, a nostalgic smile playing over his lips.

“Back then, everything was different. We had each other’s backs, and we shared dreams of a future where we could make our mark.”

I nod, listening intently as he delves into the past.

"We used to sneak out of the house at night, exploring the neighborhood, dreaming big. Carlos was the daring one, always pushing the boundaries. I was more reserved, trying to balance his impulsiveness."

He chuckles, a mix of fondness and regret in his voice. "There were tough times, but we got through them together. I could always count on Carlos, and he knew I had his back too."

“You still had his back as an adult, though,” I say to him. He nods.

“Yeah, it’s him who got distracted by the good life and left me behind.”

“What do you remember about your parents?” I ask, not sure if this is digging too deep, but there’s a feeling in my gut that this is the time to get him to open up about older wounds.

He begins talking almost immediately. I assume that’s because, as an orphan, you always want to talk about your parents, you just need to find someone who will listen.

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