Page 24 of Oh No, My Kidnapper Is Hot!

Chapter Eight

“Come,” Stryker commands, panting, his voice rough with exhaustion. A bead of sweat rolls down his forehead, sticking to his brow for only a moment before he reaches out with one large hand to wipe it away. His face is intense – focused. His bare chest glistens with sweat. It’s… hot.

It’s so,sohot.

“I don’t think I can keep going,” I say, barely able to breathe.

“You can handle it,” he replies. I shake my head. I can’t.

“Stryker,” I whine. He wraps his arm around my waist, pulling me into his naked torso – supporting me.

“I got you,” he huffs.

A minute later, we reach the crest, and he smiles, huge and warm.

“Atta girl,” he says. I collapse.

A warm, wet tongue hits my neck. I reach out blindly, pushing one of Stryker’s massive German Shepherds off me. I am in no mood for kisses from them. Not when they’re the reason we’re on this stupid death hike. Stryker said they needed a walk. He didn’tsay that walk would include elevation and miles.Miles. Plural!

After we left Archie’s house, we returned to Stryker’s, where he oh-so-graciously “let” me get ready for the day. I picked out one of many workout sets from the dresser in his room, eyeing him when I saw that all of the tops were off the shoulder. How long does he plan to keep me cuffed,exactly? Surely he can see that this situation isn’t going to work long-term.

Rather than sass him over it, I grabbed a forest green set and disappeared into the bathroom. No use arguing over the clothes he got me when I don’t plan to be here long enough to wear them all anyway.

When I reappeared, Stryker took a turn in the bathroom, grumbling about his bloodied pants. I nearly had a heart attack when he reemerged in the shortest athletic shorts I’ve ever seen – and nothing else. His chest has been on full, broad, muscular display.

So. Much. Muscle.

His arms, his shoulders, his back. The only part of him not completely shredded is his stomach – no visible abs for Stryker, which is endearingly unexpected. I’m sure they’re in there, under the softness, but on the surface he gives a huggable teddy bear vibe. You know, if we ignore the anger issues, the stalking, and the mental unwellness.

It’s not just his top half that he’s left on display, though. Oh no, of course not. The hottest man alive decided to put on the skimpiest shorts any man has ever worn. His long, strong legs areout. And, in what I can only assume is a bid to scramble the brains of every woman over the age of 18, he hasthigh tattoos.We are at code level red – too hot to handle.

His left leg is home to a beautifully illustrated kraken. Most of its arms wrap around a submarine, crushing it, while two flow down to circle his knee. On his other leg is a sea serpent in stormy waters – also circling his knee, but not stopping there. It goes all down his lower leg, wrapping around and around, water sloshing at its movement. They’re tiny, ultra-realistic versions of the myths.

I’m ashamed to admit that at my first glimpse of them, Stryker had to pick me up off the floor and wipe the droolfrom my chin. Talk about embarrassing.

Recovered, Stryker led me out of the cabin and over to a nearly identical one. Same huge front door. Same indoor layout. They’re similar to the point that I can only assume they were made using the same blueprints. The decorating is different – darker, moodier – but no less cozy.

It was in this cabin-twin that I met Draco and Bones, Stryker’s dogs. They’re the most adorable giant babies I’ve ever seen. Draco, the bigger of the two, is mostly black with brown dotting his face, belly, and legs. He’s a licker, putting his tongue on any available skin the moment he’s able. It’s as cute as it is disgusting. His companion is a black sable beauty and seems to know how to keep his tongue to himself, blessedly. I fell in love with them instantly.

I fell out of love with them fifteen minutes into this hour-long hike in the blazing sun, which gets surprisingly hot in late October.

“Draco, back,” Stryker snaps. I lift my head to see both dogs sitting neatly at his feet and focused completely on him, hero worship in their eyes. Poor things don’t even know that their daddy’s a lunatic. I’d tell them, but there’s not enough air in my lungs yet to form words.

I struggle to stand and put my hands above my heart. Try to pull in deep breaths.

There’s a cold tap on my arm, then a water bottle is held in front of my face. I accept it greedily, chugging half the bottle in one go. I wipe water from my chin and eye the pack Stryker’s been carrying.

“Do you have any food in there?” I ask. He had me drink a weird green protein smoothie at the beginning of the hike, but my stomach is grumbling for more. Two days of decent eating and she thinks she’s a goddess, deserving of proper sacrifices several times a day. She’s going to hateit when we go back to real life and the constant stream of nutrition goes away. I shrug internally. That’s a problem for future Millie.

Stryker tells me he brought us lunch, then leads me to a cleared area of rock a few feet away. He opens the pack and pulls out a blanket, spreading it neatly on the ground, each corner laid flat and precise. Next, he pulls out two collapsible dog bowls and sets them beside the blanket. He fills them with water for the dogs, who happily drink up.

While the dogs are in hydration heaven, Stryker unearths two fresh water bottles as well as two stacked bento boxes. I gape.

When did he have time to put all this together? I would remember him preparing lunch boxes for us. We’ve been attached at the hip – almost literally.

“Rosie made them,” he says, apparently reading my mind again, “and Heidi packed the bag for us. I texted her this morning to have it ready.”

A text? I haven’t seen him – or anyone, for that matter – with a phone.

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