Page 26 of Oh No, My Kidnapper Is Hot!

“Millie, it’s not.”

I sniff, and he sighs.

“My parents are gone too,” he tells me. My eyes shootto his, disbelieving, but I see the same loss I feel reflected there – the emptiness and the pain. This isn’t a man lying to me to create false bonds. This is a man hurting the same way as I do. Unbidden, my heart softens the smallest bit – just enough for empathy to take root.

“What were they like?” I ask him what I always wish people would ask me. Not how they died, but how theylived.

“They were amazing. Best parents anyone could ever have. Mom made pancakes every Sunday. Dad taught me how to ride a bike. They were a dream that never felt quite real. Proud of me. Loving and encouraging.” He looks out over my head at the view, the squeeze of his arms the only indication that he’s still here with me. “They died when I was seventeen. It’s been nineteen years and I still smell pancakes when I wake up on Sundays.”

My heart aches.

I had my parents until I was twenty – nearly the same amount of time Stryker has been without his. They helped me move into adulthood, and as much as I’ve screwed things up since they’ve been gone, I can’t imagine having done it without them. Stryker didn’t have that. He lost his beloved parents when he was still just a kid – almost an adult, but not quite. It’s no wonder his mental health suffered without them.

“They would’ve liked you,” he says. “Dad, especially. He always said a woman ought to be sweet, funny, and a little crazy.” He smiles, and I frown. He thinksI’mthe crazy one? I put my hand on his chest and open my mouth to respond – with what, I’m not sure, but I stop when my hand hits something wet and slimy instead of the warm, smooth skin I was expecting. I remove it, then squeal when I realize what’s on it.

Chapter Nine

Snot.

Not a little bit, either – a lot. Of snot.

Mysnot.

I. Am. Mortified.

I try to pull away, but, of course, get nowhere. Stupid Stryker with his stupid Hulk arms.

“I got snot all over you!” I squeak. “Please, if you have any plans to kill me – any at all – do it right now!”

If ever there was a time for death, it’s when you’ve snotted all over the hottest man alive after having a full-on breakdown in his arms. Kidnapper or not, this isembarrassing.

“Please, Stryker. I’m begging you. Where’s the gun? Give it to me. I’ll do it.” I reach around him to where the pack was sitting before. My hands, unfortunately, don’t get anywhere near it.

He gives me a shake.

“Darlin’, it’s fine,” he lies. I know he’s lying because it is very much not fine. It’s gross.There areboogerson him.

If I can’t get to the gun, maybe I will pass away from sheer humiliation instead. The man could be in a calendar, and I have defaced his perfect chest.

Please,someone, end me. I long for the grave. I will be happy there, with my father and my mother, and Stryker’s parents as well. Scout’s honor.

“Sweetheart,” he says, shaking me again. I whimper.

He sighs, reaches behind him, and retrieves the bag. Myeyes lock on it, filled with desperate hope. The end is near. My torture will soon be over.

Stryker pulls out a stack of napkins and begins wiping at his chest. I whimper again.

“Where’s the gun?” What is hedoing?I need that gun!

“Nobody’s shooting you, Millie. Stop thinkin’ about it,” he orders. My distress knows no bounds.

“But I–”

“No,” he interrupts. “It’s not happenin’. Nobody’s shooting you. Not now, not ever.” He’s using his cranky voice now – the one from the van when he first snatched me. I pout, and he heaves another deep sigh while he wipes the last of the yuck off. I wince and give the bag a longing look.

“I said stop,” Stryker snaps. I avert my eyes.

“Will you let me up, please?” I ask him. Polite. Kind. Hopefully nice enough to get his grouch to go away.

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