Page 64 of Oh No, My Kidnapper Is Hot!

“I’d rather not have this conversation at all,” I tell him. His sigh is long-suffering.

“You can’t avoid everything that makes you uncomfortable,” he says. Ha! That’s what he thinks.

His arm on my back moves to make soothing circles over my shirt. “What’re you scared of? That I might say somethin’ to make you change your mind – to make you admit you want this?”

“I’m not scared,” I lie. Of course I’m scared. I’ve been kidnapped. Any sane person would be scared right now, and it definitely does not have anything at all to do with the reason he said. That reason is just silly.

“I know what you’re runnin’ from, darlin’, but what are you runnin’ to?”

“Freedom,” I tell him.

“Freedom?” he asks, disbelief clear in his voice. “You mean livin’ in your car and never knowing where your next meal will come from – or if it will come at all? Workin’ for a man who pays you pennies and bein’ yelled at by idiots all day? Buried in debt you can’t escape? Havin’ no friends, no family, not even a pet to love you?” He shakes his head. “Sweetheart, that’s not freedom. That’s prison.”

I’m not breathing. Not moving. I open my eyes wide, willing gathered tears not to fall. Willing his words not to be true.

He gentles his tone. “I’ll give you freedom, Millie. I’ll give you a home. I’ll give you your meals – three times a day, every day. I’ll provide anything you need and everything you want. Your debt? It’s gone. I’ll pay it. You want friends? They’re here. Family? Pets? They’re here too.Loveis here. You just have to accept it.”

I’m breathing now – big, terrible breaths that come between sobs. I shake my head. I don’t want him to be right. Hecan’tbe right. It hurts too much.

He is though, and it only makes me cry harder.

I want what he’s offering. I want it so badly it hurts, but I don’t know how to reach out and take it. These last several months have been like a dream.

So why am I running? Why can’t I just let myselfstay? I could have pranks with Archie and movie days with Heidi and Baz. Family dinners and morning hikes with the dogs. And Stryker. Stryker in the kitchen making my food. On the trail holding me up. Watching from the porch, shaking his head at my antics as I prank our friends. Dancing with me in the living room. Kissing me in the pool.

It’s all right there on offer, but I don’t know how to claim it – how to make it mine – no matter how much I want it.

Stryker’s chest rises and falls steadily beneath me. His hand rubs a persistent pattern on my back. It comforts, confuses, breaks, and heals. I heave deep, wracking breaths thathurt. Clinging to him, I beg him to fix what it feels like he’s broken. Wishing he could show me how to take what I so desperately want.

“Shh, it’s okay. It’s all going to be okay. I’ve got you.”

We lie like that for hours – long enough to watch thelight shift as the sun rises. Eventually I settle, sniffling against him. His sweeping hand turns into an arm around me that hugs tight.

“I love you, Millie,” he whispers softly. My breath hitches.

He rolls us over, scooting me up so our faces are aligned. My eyes go to his nose, where I see a single tear make its way down before falling onto my cheek and mingling with my own.

“Think about what I’ve said, yeah?” I nod. I don’t think I’d be able to think about anything else if I tried.

He presses his forehead against mine, then trails it down until his head is nestled in my neck and our bodies are a mirror of the position we were in before.

“Rest,” he orders, his breath warming my skin. “It’ll all feel better when we wake up.”

Emotional, wrung out, exhausted, I do as he says, hoping he’s right.

Chapter Twenty-Two

We don’t wake up until after noon, when our stomachs force us out of bed. I stumble behind Stryker to the kitchen, squinting at the light and feeling hungover. I’m almost grateful for the pain, because it overrides any awkwardness I might feel after last night. It’s hard to be embarrassed when your head is pounding and you feel like you could sleep for a thousand years.

I collapse onto a stool at the counter and lay my head on the cool surface. Ahh. Nice.

I groan when Stryker speaks. Does he have to use a bullhorn?

“Drink this, and take these.”

I roll my head to the side and see a glass of orange juice next to two white ovular pills. To take the mystery medicine from a man whose job is to kill people, or not? Hmm.

I take it, obviously.

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