Page 21 of Oh No, My Kidnapper Is Hot!

This one is a bit heavier. I do the slow zip thing again, then flip the top open. Jeans. Boring. I dig under them in search of something with a crumb of entertainment value. Jeans, jeans, more jeans. I stop. This pair has a lump, like something is under them. Excited, I move them aside, then I jump and stifle a scream.

There’s a gun in there! A real life gun!

I shove the bag – andgun!– off my lap. I didn’t think itwouldactuallyhave a gun in it!

It takes several minutes of deep breathing before I’m able to even think about touching the bag again. Carefully – so, so carefully – I pull it back toward me.

Why does he have a gun? Here? Where I am?! He said he wasn’t going to hurt me! And, okay, sure, I shouldn’t trust the word of a madman, but so far he’s been remarkably gentle! I mean, yeah, there was the flinging me around the car. And the dropping me on the floor. And the pinning me to the wall… and bed… and cot.

Alright he hasn’t beenthatgentle with me. But he certainly hasn’t been anywhere neargun violencelevels of rough.

This is not good. This issonot good. This is agun.Loosey-goosey in a duffel bag! I’m no expert, but I’m pretty sure guns are supposed to go in safes – for safety. They are definitely not meant to be floating about in a pile of men’s pants!

I jump when the bathroom sink turns on, shooting a panicked look at the door. Oh no. He’s going to be done soon. Then, he’s going to come out here, catch me going through his stuff, andshootme.

I can’t breathe.

I dig my nails into my thighs through the soft material of my pajamas and inhale deeply through my nose, then exhale through my mouth. Two more rounds, and my lungs stop screaming at me.

Okay, Millie. Think.He’s almost done in there. There’s no time for a breakdown.

I have to hide the gun.

I grab it, but it slips from my hand. Muttering a bad, bad word, I wipe my hands on my shirt before retrieving it and standing up. I need a hiding place that I can reach with the constraints of the handcuffs.

I look around, eyeing every crevice and hidey-hole in the room. I could try to toss it under the bed, I guess, but with the way my life is going right now, I’d probably accidentally set it off and blow a hole through myself. No, thank you.

The water shuts off in the bathroom, and I panic again – which is, of course, the worst possible thing you can do with a gun in your hand.

The door opens, and I whip around, lift the gun, close my eyes, and fire.

“Millie, what the fu–”

My arms are shoved upward and the gun is ripped from my hands. I squeeze my eyes shut harder, instant regret coursing through me. I hear the clicky clicks of gun mechanics and whimper, anticipating a shot that doesn’t come.

After a moment, I muster enough courage to peek one eye open, and I’m relieved to find that the gun is nowhere to be seen. I open both eyes fully and take in the scene I’ve caused.

Stryker’s pajama sleeve is covered in red wetness, and he’s letting out a string of expletives that would make a sailor blush. I squint. Is that… oh gross. That’s blood.

I make it to the toilet just in time for bile to rise up in my throat. That looked likea lotof blood. Can a person bleed that much? Was there so much because he’s big? He probably has three times the amount of blood as a normal-sized person, right?

I vomit again.

I really,reallyshould not have shot him.

“Stop throwin’ up,” Stryker orders, joining me in the bathroom. He opens the cabinet under the sink and pulls out a paltry-looking first-aid kit. The whole thing is barely the size of one of his hands. There’s no way it has thesupplies necessary to handle that much blood.

My stomach churns. Stryker takes one look at me and growls.

“You are not going to shoot me and then sit around freaking out about it. Get up. We’re takin’ care of this,” he growls. I whimper again as I get a second look at his arm. It looks bad.

Stryker swears.

He hauls me up by my arm and drags me through the house. We’re out the front door and across the street in seconds. I get a glimpse of two rows of houses, three on each side, before I’m pulled up a bare wooden porch and through a bright pink door.

“Archie!” Stryker bellows. He doesn’t wait for an answer.

He barges through the house and down a set of stairs that lead to a large basement. One corner of the room is taken up by technological paraphernalia – monitors, cables, headphones, microphones, and other bits and bobs I couldn’t hope to recognize. The chaos of it clashes harshly with the rest of the room, which is set up in a way that is reminiscent of a surgical suite.

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