Page 6 of Taken By the Outlaw

I wake with a start,momentarily confused by the unfamiliar ceiling above me. It takes exactly three seconds for reality to crash down—the heist, the alley,Clark. I'm lying on a narrow bed in a locked room, prisoner to a man whose cold blue eyes haunted what little sleep I managed to get. Sunlight filters through the barred window, highlighting dust motes that dance in the air like tiny stars. In the harsh light of day, I should be focusing on escape, on survival. Instead, my traitor mind keeps replaying the way Clark's voice dropped low when he said my name, the heat of his hand around my wrist, the dangerous promise in his gaze.

I sit up, pushing tangled hair from my face. The books I arranged last night still stand in a neat row on the bedside table—my small attempt to create order in chaos. I run my fingers along their spines, drawing comfort from their familiar presence.

The room looks different in daylight. Less ominous, but no less a prison. The walls are bare concrete, painted a faded blue-gray. The furniture is sparse but sturdy—bed, table, chair, small dresser. The bathroom is little more than a closet with a toilet, sink, and shower stall, but it's clean. Someone has put thought into this space, designed it specifically for keeping people contained.

How many others have been locked in here before me?

I splash cold water on my face and attempt to tame my hair with my fingers. My reflection in the small mirror above the sink shows shadows under my eyes and a pallor to my skin that makes my freckles stand out starkly. I look younger than my nineteen years, more vulnerable. I hate it.

A key turns in the lock, and I freeze, heart leaping into my throat. I quickly retreat to the bed, sitting with my back against the wall, knees drawn up like a shield.

The door swings open, and Clark fills the frame. He's even more imposing in daylight—tall and broad-shouldered, his presence seeming to shrink the room. He's dressed simply in dark jeans and a black t-shirt that stretches across his chest, revealing the muscled contours beneath. Tattoos peek out from beneath his sleeves, crawling up his neck. His dark hair is slightly disheveled, as if he's run his hands through it repeatedly.

He carries a tray with what smells like coffee and food. My stomach growls embarrassingly in response.

"You're awake," he says, voice rough like he hasn't used it yet this morning.

I nod, not trusting my voice.

He sets the tray on the table, then stands back, studying me with those penetrating blue eyes. I fight the urge to fidget under his gaze.

"Did you sleep?" he asks.

The question surprises me—it sounds almost like concern. "Not much."

"Understandable." He gestures to the tray. "Eat."

It's not a suggestion. I unfold my legs and move to the chair, conscious of his eyes tracking my every movement. The tray holds coffee, toast, eggs, and a banana. Simple but thoughtful.

"Thank you," I say automatically, manners ingrained by my mother surfacing even in captivity.

A ghost of a smile touches his lips. "Well-brought-up little thing, aren't you?"

I take a sip of coffee to avoid responding, surprised to find it prepared exactly how I prefer—light with no sugar. It's a coincidence, it has to be, but it unsettles me nonetheless.

"Your mother must be proud," he continues, leaning against the wall, arms crossed. "Raising such a polite daughter."

My cup freezes halfway to my lips. "My mother," I repeat, anxiety flooding back. "She's expecting me home. She's sick—she needs her medication, and my sister can't?—"

"It's been taken care of," he interrupts.

I stare at him. "What do you mean?"

"Your mother received a text from your phone last night. You're staying with a friend from the library for a few days, helping her recover from surgery."

Horror washes through me. "You went through my phone?"

"Of course I did." He says it like it's the most obvious thing in the world. "I know everything about you now, Emilia West. Twenty-six Maple Street, apartment 3B. Graduated high school two years ago with honors. Working at the library while taking night classes at the community college. Mother with MS, younger sister still in high school. Father left when you were twelve." His eyes never leave mine as he recites the details of my life. "You live a very small existence, little librarian."

I should be terrified by how thoroughly he's invaded my privacy. Instead, I feel a strange rush that he's bothered to learn so much about me. That he's interested enough to memorize these details.

"What do you want from me?" I ask, my voice steadier than I expect.

He pushes off from the wall, approaching slowly, deliberately. I remain seated, refusing to show how his proximity affects me.

"That's the question, isn't it?" He braces his hands on the table, leaning down until his face is level with mine. Close enough that I can see the darker flecks of navy in his ice-blue eyes, smell the mint on his breath. "What do I want from Emilia West?"

Our faces are inches apart. I should be shrinking back, should be terrified. But something hot and unfamiliar curls in my stomach, crawling up my spine, making it hard to breathe.

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