Page 7 of Taken By the Outlaw

"I don't understand," I whisper.

"Don't you?" His voice drops lower. "I think you do. I think you feel it too."

My cheeks heat. "Feel what?"

He reaches out, tracing one finger along my jawline, the touch feather-light but scorching. "This," he says. "This thing between us."

Our fingers brush as I instinctively reach up to push his hand away, and I feel a spark—like static from the dry air, but it jolts through me with unexpected force. I pull back as if burned.

Clark straightens, satisfaction evident in the slight curve of his mouth. "I'm offering you a deal, Emilia."

I swallow hard. "What kind of deal?"

"One night." He says it simply, but the words hang in the air, heavy with meaning. "One night with me, and then you're free to go. Back to your small life, your sick mother, your dusty books. With the promise that you'll never speak of what you saw in that alley."

My mind goes blank. One night. With him. The implication is unmistakable.

"You can't be serious," I say, but my voice sounds distant, detached.

"I rarely joke." His eyes travel over me, a physical caress that makes my skin tingle where his gaze touches. "One night of complete surrender, Emilia. That's my price for your freedom."

I should be outraged. Should be screaming, fighting, demanding to be released. But all I can focus on is the way my name sounds in his mouth, the way his proposal sends heat flooding between my thighs.

"I've never..." I start, then stop, cheeks burning hotter.

His expression softens fractionally. "I know."

Of course he knows. He's probably read it in every anxious glance, every awkward movement. My inexperience must be painfully obvious to someone like him.

"Why?" I ask. "Why would you want...that...from me?"

"Because from the moment I saw you in that alley, I haven't been able to think of anything else." The raw honesty in his voice startles me. "I want to be your first, Emilia."

My breath hitches. No one has ever wanted me like this—with this intensity, this focus. Boys my age fumble and stammer, their interest superficial and easily diverted. Clark's desire is something else entirely. Something that both terrifies and thrills me.

"I can't," I whisper, though something inside me screams the opposite.

"Can't?" He arches an eyebrow. "Or won't?"

I think of my life before last night—quiet, predictable, safe. Wake up, care for Mom, go to work, study, sleep. Repeat. I've never taken a real risk, never stepped outside the narrow boundaries of my responsibilities.

"I don't know you," I try again.

"You know enough," he counters. "You know I can hurt you, but I haven't. You know I could have killed you, but I didn't." He pauses, eyes intense. "You know I want you. And you want me too."

The accusation hangs between us. I want to deny it, but the lie sticks in my throat.

"It doesn't matter what I want," I say instead. "I can't just...do that. With a stranger. With someone who's keeping me prisoner."

"Not a prisoner," he corrects. "A guest with limited options."

Despite everything, a surprised laugh escapes me. His eyes brighten at the sound, something like triumph flashing in them.

"There she is," he murmurs. "There's a fire in you, little librarian. I saw it when you stood your ground in that alley. When you demanded I use your name."

He's right. There is a part of me—a part I've carefully suppressed beneath responsibility and routine—that craves something more. Something dangerous. Something like Clark.

"Think about it," he says, stepping back. "You have until tonight to decide."

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