Page 27 of Oh No, My Kidnapper Is Hot!

“Not yet,” he answers. “Want to make sure you understand something first.”

“All I want to ’understand’ is how to pull the trigger to end my current torment.”

“I don’t care about a little snot,” he says. My brows furrow. It’s not “a little” snot. It’s a metric ton of the stuff.

“And I don’t care about having to hold you while you cry,” he continues. “I’d hold you for an eternity if that’s what you needed. I think it’s sweet that you loved your dad enough to give him that. It’s beautiful, that kind of love, and it proves that your dad was right. Whatever the view, they’d all pale in comparison to the beauty you put out in the world.”

My jaw drops.

He gives me a squeeze, then sets me on the ground, kissing my hair lightly before cleaning up our lunch mess and checking on the dogs. I gape.

Did he… did he just try to Stockholm me?

“Did you just try to Stockholm me?” I screech.

I’m going to kill him. I’m going to shoot him again, but with my eyes open so that I can aim better. He did not just use my dead dad’s sweetness to attempt to charm me. That would be insane. Even more insane than Stryker’s usual insane.

“I’m not Stockholming anyone.” He has the audacity to sound beleaguered with me, as ifI’mthe one manipulating grieving women for nefarious means!

“I’d appreciate it if you kept your dishonest sentiments to yourself in the future,” I hiss. I should have snotted on him more!

He grunts.

“I haven’t lied to you yet, and I don’t plan to start,” he says. I sputter. He’s lied to me several times in the past ten minutes!

“You lie all the time!” I exclaim. Another grunt.

“Me lying and you not believing what I say are two different things,” he tells me.

“How could I possibly believe anything you say when you think that you’re anassassinwhokills peoplefor a living?” I ask. I mean, really! What does he expect? Even the things he thinks are truths are lies! He is not to be trusted.

“You know what,” he says, yanking me up off the ground. He grabs the blanket we were sitting on and shoves it into the bag with the rest of the stuff. “I think tomorrow is going to be Bring Millie to Work Day.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Bring Millie to Work Day” sounds a lot like “Millie Escape Opportunity” to me. I could sneak away while this lunatic is “killing people”. Then I can find a cop, give him the whereabouts for a wellness check, and zip myself off to the beach. I’ll be sipping Mai Tais bysunset tomorrow, and Stryker and his merry band of mentally unwell will be in the psych ward, hopefully getting top-notch help.

Stryker and I don’t speak as we make our way down the trail. The hike down is much easier with gravity working for us, but easier doesn’t mean easy. I’m sweating within minutes.

The dogs stick close, sniffing at roots and logs. When we reach the trailhead, they sit dutifully as Stryker digs in the pack for the dog bowls and another round of water. He hands me a bottle, which I silently accept.

We walk the dogs back to their house in the orange and pink light of the sunset. Stryker feeds them and lets them out before settling them into a set of kennels that look suspiciously identical to the one in the back of his infectious van.

My eye twitches, but I keep my mouth shut. I don’t want to risk setting off Stryker before Operation Free Millie commences tomorrow. If he gets mad, he might leave me at the cabin with his whackjob friends again.

The dogs are locked securely in their kennels with a beep on their keypads, and we take off on the treacherous journey to Stryker’s house next door. Treacherous because the sun is fully set now and I can’t see a thing.

I trip twice before Stryker swears and lifts me into an increasingly familiar princess carry. How he manages to hold me and navigate the dark is a mystery, but he does it. We enter the house, and he flips a switch that has me squeezing my eyes shut. Who put the sun in here?

He doesn’t pause to adjust to the glaring lights or give me a chance to acclimate. Instead, he moves through the house, turning on lights as he goes, consistently blinding me. It’s not until we’re in the bedroom that he lets me down, dropping my legs first. He waits for me to steadymyself before releasing my upper half. Foregoing the ceiling light, He flips on only the nightstand lamp, giving my eyes a sweet, sweet break with the soft lighting.

When I’m fully able to see again, he’s rooting through the dresser and pulling out clothes for me.

“I can do that!” I squeak, and move to intercept him. There are only so many times I can go through the indignity of a man choosing my underwear. He doesn’t respond.

He finishes at the dresser as soon as I reach him and moves to his duffles, forcing me to swivel and follow. I make a grab for the clothes in his hands, and he holds them out of my reach.

“Quit it,” he bosses. I don’t listen, which leads to a small scuffle. It ends with me on the floor and Stryker looming over me.

“We don’t have time to flirt tonight, darlin’. We have to shower and sleep. We have a long day tomorrow,” he says. I sputter.

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