Page 25 of Oh No, My Kidnapper Is Hot!

“Rule number seven of The Millicent Plan: No cell phones around Millicent while she’s still tryin’ to escape. You haven’t seen them because you’re not meant to see them. Too much of a security risk.”

“You can’t read minds, can you?” I ask, feeling likeI’mthe one aboard the Looney Express. Stryker, distressingly, doesn’t answer.

“Sit down, Millie. Eat your food. Drink some water. Enjoy the breeze and the view,” he bosses, making good use of his gentle voice. I comply, but only because the breeze really does feel nice, and the view really is rather beautiful. And if I don’t give my tummy her sacrifice, I’m afraid her wrath will come swiftly. I definitely donotcomply because he used his gentle voice. The gentle voiceof a madman has no effect on me, obviously.

I clear my throat.

He sits down next to me and hands me a bento box, plopping the water bottles in front of us. I drink the other half of my already-opened bottle before turning my attention to the food. When I open the box, I realize I shouldn’t have waited.

“It’s so cute!” I squeal. There’s a little dog made out of rice and seaweed settled on a ruffly lettuce leaf. Nestled beside it are tiny sausages, broccoli, oranges, carrots, and cherry tomatoes. Two pale yellow ovals that might be eggs rest next to them.

I uncover the second layer of the box to reveal two perfectly square pieces of pink cake topped with heart-shaped strawberry slices. It’s the most whimsical lunch I’ve ever seen. My stomach drops.

There’s no way I can eat it. It’s too beautiful.

Stryker opens his box, and I gasp. He has a tiger! With orange rice and everything! The rest of his food is identical to mine, but… that tiger. It’s four hundred times more adorable than my puppy rice. I put my eyes back on my own food and make an effort to tamp down my disappointment.

The box disappears from my lap, replaced immediately by a sweet little orange tiger. My eyes dart to Stryker. He’s already shoveling half the puppy-shaped rice into his mouth, his attention on the dogs.

“Thank you,” I sniff, unaccountably emotional. He only nods. For a total whackjob, he really can be sweet.

I take care to eat slowly so that I can enjoy the cuteness for as long as possible. It’s difficulty level: hard, because it tastes as good as it looks. I nearly keel over and die of pure pleasure when I get to the cakes.

I’mreallygoing to miss the food here when I’m gone.

I’m still nibbling through my box when Stryker finishes his, then whips up a shaker bottle of protein sadness. He offers me one, and I decline.

“I’d rather jump off this mountain than drink another one of those.”

He laughs, as if I’m joking.

He gazes out at the view while he sips, and I take it in too. No surprise, it’s beautiful. Nothing could ever beat the green hills of Kentucky. Not for me. I’ve loved them since I was little, riding on my dad’s shoulders as he hiked through the woods.

My chest aches. I haven’t been hiking since he died. Haven’t even driven to a lookout. It’s bittersweet now to see the view he loved so much without him.

“What’s got you frowning, darlin’?” Stryker asks, his voice quiet and soft. I hesitate to answer. I don’t owe him anything, and heaven knows he doesn’t deserve this part of me. But then I think of my dad.Hedeserves it. To be honored. Remembered. Loved.

“My dad used to love hiking in the mountains here,” I say. “He went every weekend. Once a month, he’d sneak into my room real early and wake me up. He would tell me I had to be quiet – to whisper – so I didn’t wake up my mom or my brother. Said they’d be jealous I was letting him hang out with me.” I smile at the memory. He was such a goof. “At the end of every trail he’d say, ’See that, Millie? Fourth-best view in the whole world, right here for us.’” A tear escapes my eye, wetting a path down my cheek. Stryker reaches out with a rough, calloused finger to rub it away.

“Fourth?” he asks. I chuckle weakly as another tear falls.

“Fourth,” I confirm. “I asked him once, ’Why fourth?’ He told me it was because I was one through three.” Ibarely get the words out before a sob wracks me.

I’m moved instantly, dragged into Stryker’s lap. He wraps his arms around me and holds me snug against him. His hand is in my hair, not petting but gripping, keeping me tight to him. It feels like he’s holding in all the torn pieces of myself that are trying to break off. I shove closer to him, hoping the strength of his body will rein them in.

I can’t breathe. I can’t think. All I feel is thehurtand themissingand thenot right.

Stryker rocks me, humming gentle words into my hair that I don’t understand but that ring of protection and understanding. He bends his knees, drawing me closer until I’m surrounded by him completely – legs, arms, chest, head. He rocks me for a long time as I cry, holding me together and whispering reassurances.

“It’s all right, sweetheart. Take as long as you need. You’re safe here. I’ve got you.” Comfort after comfort. Acceptance and patience.

I nearly lose it again. I never got this when my parents died. My brother just… left. We didn’t have any other family. I was alone, trying to survive. I didn’t have a chance to grieve like this or a person to hold me while I did it. I didn’t realize how badly I needed it. I don’t want to be grateful to Stryker, but I find that I am – at least a little bit.

I start to pull back, and he squeezes me before loosening his hold. He doesn’t lower his legs or remove his arms completely, but he does take his hand out of my hair and lean back a couple of inches.

“Thank you,” I mumble, looking anywhere but his face.

“It’s not a problem,” he says softly, running his hand up my back and then down again. I wrinkle my nose.

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