Page 4 of Graveyard Dog

She eyed him warily, then slowly went back to her task, glancing at him from over her shoulder every so often. After hauling the duffel bag off the table, she looked longingly once more at the cabinet above the stove. Whatever she wanted called to her. She stuck a nail between her teeth in thought, then leaned down to him again.

“Close your eyes and don’t move,” she said.

He obeyed. This was getting too interesting not to.

Then she stepped over him, one foot at his hip, the other between his legs. His muscles clenched in response. The scent of peaches drifted over him, and he lifted his lids—just barely—trying to see what she was up to. The robe parted at her knees as she reached up, and he caught a glimpse of her shapely thighs. He welded his teeth together when one of said thighs brushed his fingers.

She stepped back, and he remembered that he wasn’t supposed to move, so he lowered his head again and sat there. Quiet. Bound. Obedient. This whole thing would’ve been much easier if he were a sub. He’d never been submissive a day in his life. He may have to rethink that.

After tossing the mystery item into the bag, she zipped it closed and then dragged it with both hands to the front door before hurrying back to her bedroom.

Michael sat there in thought for several long moments. She would never confide in him as long as he was tied up and unable to speak. No, he would have to convince her to open up to him. He just didn’t know how.

Before he could decide, the bedroom door squeaked open, and the girl—now dressed in a pair of purple sweats and a hoodie—tiptoed out.

Michael closed his eyes again and waited as the girl crept past him to put her go-bag next to the duffel full of food. He watched her through heavily lidded eyes. She tiptoed to the refrigerator and took out a sparkly pink water bottle before stopping in front of him.

“Live well, my lord.” She said the words a microsecond before she bent and placed a soft kiss on his cheek.

It broke him. He waited until she stepped back before moving. The shock on the girl’s face when he looked up at her almost made him laugh, but he had to be quick. One jerk and the handle gave. He let it drop to the floor, then went to work on the ropes.

“Mommy!” the girl shouted, her British accent gone as she ran down the hall. “The prisoner escaped! The prisoner escaped!”

“That’s impossible,” the woman said, stepping into the hall as the girl ran past her into the room.

The knots in the rope weren’t bad. Again, she knew what she was doing. But they took all of twenty seconds to discard.

The woman gasped, slammed the bedroom door, and locked it.

His boots plodded to the flimsy barrier. One shove, and he was in. Just in time to see the woman raise a gun and point it at his head.

Chapter Two

How soon after getting up

is it okay to take a nap?

—Meme

No. Not a gun. A blacktoygun, the kind that shot foam darts. Seriously?

He crossed his arms and leaned against the doorframe, doing his best not to scare them and failing miserably.

The woman, now dressed in jeans and a long-sleeved V-neck, stood on the other side of the bed, holding the girl to her with one hand and the gun on him with the other.

“You’re not fooling anyone with that piece of plastic, Killer.”

The indignant expression that flashed across her face was almost worth the subsequent pain a chuckle evoked. Almost.

“How did you—?” She snapped her mouth shut, annoyance flitting across her face. No, not annoyance. Confusion. And fear. She drew in a shaky breath, doing her best to regroup, but the fear had taken hold. Though she kept her jaw firmly in place as she held onto what tattered remnants of defiance she could muster, the gun shook in her hand. Still, she was a fighter.

Attagirl.

He almost smiled, but he had genuinely scared the girl, and he was sorrier for that than anything.

“To the average person, this gun looks real,” the woman said, holding it as still as she could while her gaze periodically darted around. Looking for a real weapon? A phone? An escape?

Michael did his best to seem innocuous, which was hard with his size. And his features. A woman at a bar had once called himThe Hulk. He didn’t appreciate the comparison, but she wasn’twrong. “That looks about as real as those diamond rings you get from a gumball machine.”

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