Page 6 of Mine to Take

CHAPTER FOUR

KIRSTEN

Loving me?

I let the words reverberate around me as I stared out the open door. He was confusing the hell out of me. How is this one of the most wanted terrorists in the world?

He’d had a man raped because that man was raping me. I have no idea what he has done to my husband, nor do I care, but I imagine if he is still alive, he is not living comfortably. His fierce and violent retribution on these fronts only makes me want him more. He’s holding me under lock and key, yet somehow I don’t mind. What is wrong with me? And just now, I’d masturbated in front of him, when I wasn’t even certain it was him watching.

I stared at the open door, walked to it and closed it.

I showered and dressed for dinner. I had no makeup or any ability to tame my hair, but he had brought me an assortment of lotions and oils.

Once ready I sat on the bed and fidgeted. I wondered if he had really turned the cameras off. That had not been my goal, but when the opportunity presented itself, and he had actually seemed somewhat impressed with my play.

As the light in the room turned golden and orange and began to fade, I gave up and headed out the door myself.

He was already there. Dressed in a long white tunic and dark pants underneath. Sitting in an old wingback chair, a glass of wine in his hand. Shit he was gorgeous.

“I thought maybe you were standing me up,” he grinned.

“Am I not worth waiting for?” I bit my lip and gazed at him.

“If you are not long, I will wait for you my whole life…”

My breath hitched and he stood.

“If it is worth having, it is worth waiting for. If it is worth attaining, it is worth fighting for. If it is worth experiencing, it is worth putting aside time for.”

“Oscar Wilde,” I stammered.

His fingers traced my jaw line and wove into my still-damp tangled hair, his eyes followed his fingers and my eyes glued to his, until they returned to mine. “You amaze me,” I said to him. I said it in Farsi.

His face lit up. He lowered his face to mine and placed a whisper of a kiss on my lips. I melted when his hands skimmed my hips, the heat of them searing through the soft fabric of my dress. “Hungry?”

“Always,” I laughed.

We ate, talked books and music, switching between speaking in Farsi and English. The more wine I had the more we spoke in Farsi and the more my dialects swayed off course. We laughed a lot. It was all ridiculously normal, and fun.

“I might be growing to like being your hostage,” I giggled at him, our fingers entwined, our thumbs dancing.

“You’ve never shown me any fear, neither of me, or your situation.” He spoke it as a statement, but his eyes were full of questions.

“You’ve yet to give me a reason to fear you. Do you want me to be afraid of you?”

“No, but most would say you should be.”

“I suspect certain people should fear you, but I don’t think I’m one of them. You saved my life, twice. Maybe this situation is better than the one you plucked me from, did ya ever think about that?” I tried to keep the tone light, because I didn’t want to go back there, even in my head.

“You haven’t asked about him.”

“I don’t care about him. If that makes me…well so be it. Is he still alive?”

“Do you want him to be?”

“So, that’s a yes.” I stared down at the now empty glass in my hand.

“He is still breathing at the moment. Again, do you want him to be?”

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