Page 92 of Crossfire

“I’m not staying with you,” I declared, defiance flaring within me.

Grayson sighed, but not in anI’m surprisedway. In agreat, this will be more difficult than I preferway.

“Which, I suppose, leaves us with option C,” Grayson said.

Option C? He said A and B?

“And what does that involve? A dagger to the heart, a duffel bag, an anchor, and Lake Michigan?” My voice dripped with venom.

“I will keep you against your will. It won’t be pretty. You’ll probably spend the entire time trying to escape, which will be quite uncomfortable for you, not to mention frustrating. But you will stay.”

His confidence was beyond arrogant.

“In fact,” he continued, “I will bring you somewhere remote to keep you safe.”

Remote. As in, what, a shack in the woods with a bucket for a toilet? At least those repulsive living conditions would deflate the chemistry bubble.

“You’re psychotic,” I accused.

He cocked his head.

“Would a psycho give you choices, Ivy?”

Evidently.

“Whether you realize it or not, I’m trying to keep you alive.”

“You’re an assassin who’s been sent to kill me.” A flicker of frustration and—fine, I’ll admit it—fear, threaded through my voice.

He smirked. “Ironic, isn’t it?”

I clenched my jaw.

Ironic? More like delusional.

“Here are the options that I have for you,” I countered, trying to reclaim some semblance of control.

“For a woman bound and captive at my mercy, you sure have a lot of courage to pretend you have any power here. The only power you have is the power I’m giving to you.”

Assholewasn’t an adequate term. When I got out of this mess, I’d study the English language to find a far more accurate way to describe him.

“Option A”—I jutted my chin up—“I spend every waking second trying to escape until I finally do. And once I finally do, I will go to the police. Your name is Grayson, and I know you have some weird-ass accomplice who wears a mask and comes over to your house in the middle of the night to help you abduct a girl. Maybe the police will start looking into everyone you know, and I can describe their height, their build?—”

The sudden appearance of his face inches from my own cut off my voice before I finished.

“You would be well advised not to provoke me.” His tone was a deep growl of a warning, one that sent ice coating my spine.

Okay, provoking him probably wasn’t the smartest move I ever made, but I couldn’t stand having no power. I hated him for what he was doing to me. If I wanted to feel like a victim, I’d never have taken all those fighting classes, but those classes didn’t train me on how to get myself released from a captor.

I guess I’d been confident that it would never get that far.

But what I hated even more than him right now was how a part of me—albeit a small part—was…enthralled at having the power to make him react this strongly. I mean, the guy was normally so in control, and yet…look at him now.

Mentally, I shook off the fascination. Any unwelcome spark flickering inside me right now was just…hormones, chemistry—that’s it. Or maybe it was a survival thing, like Stockholm syndrome. Hell, I was probably losing my mind or something.

His behavior should be a cold splash of water to extinguish this flame.

It was.

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