Page 34 of Oh No, My Kidnapper Is Hot!

“Yes?” I squeak.

“It’s nice to have you back,” he says, pushing my head against his broad chest and holding me there.

Is he… hugging me? He rests his head on top of mine.

Wow. He is. He’s hugging me.

I don’t know how to respond. Am I glad he’s not a maniacal killer with no morals? Yes. Absolutely. But he still kidnapped me, locked me in a cage, handcuffed me to him, and then forced me to watch the killing of a man withzeroexplanation as to why that murder would be okay. So a hug isn’t really top of the list of things I want to share with him right now. Top of the list is more along the lines of me driving the van while he gets thrown all around in the cage in the back.

My arms hang at my sides – not hugging him back. He doesn’t seem to notice.

We stand like that for a long time. Long enough that I lose some of my stiffness. Long enough that I start to relax into his embrace. It’s kind of nice, actually – being held like this. It feels cozy. Safe.

At some point I close my eyes, and I’m nearly asleep when Stryker finally moves to pull us apart. I blink up at him, and my mouth drops open at the sweet smile he’s giving me. He looks like the male lead in every romantic comedy ever, smiling down at the love interest. It’s sweet and caring and soft, causing a visceral reaction deep in my chest that makes itself known in the form of a mortifying whine. His male lead smile deepens at the sound. My knees go weak.

“Look away, darlin’,” he says, moving my head withhis hand in my hair until I’m facing his chest. “Now take a deep breath. Yes, just like that. Good girl.” My knees lose whatever strength they had gained back and another whine escapes me. He can’t talk like that. It’s indecent. Indecent to thehighestdegree.

I remind myself that he abducted me and shot a man in front of me with no real warning. Just a laughable attempt at convincing me he was a killer then a “look away when I raise my gun”. And with that, I regain my composure.

I take a step away from Stryker and am relieved when he allows it.

“We can handle the sheets later. Right now, we’re going to get you fed,” he tells me. I disagree.

“We should do the sheets first. They’re gross.” Stryker seems to be considering my point until my stomach makes an awful, loud, gurgling sound. He shakes his head and grabs my hand, pulling me out the bedroom door.

“Food first, sweetheart, then we can talk about the bed.” I open my mouth to object, but am interrupted by my stomach. Hmph. Fine. Food first, then cleanliness.

My skin is crawling just thinking about it.

Stryker drags me to the kitchen and nudges me onto one of the stools. He rounds the counter once I’m settled and starts pulling ingredients out of the fridge and pantry. He lines them up neatly by the stove: penne, butter, garlic, broccoli, Parmesan. My mouth starts to water.

“Are you making pasta with broccoli?” I ask, my heart full of hope. He hums an affirmative, filling a pot with water. “That’s my favorite,” I tell him.

“I know,” he says. Oh. That’s right. Two months of stalking. Although…

“When did you see me eat pasta and broccoli?” I ask. I live in a car. I definitely wasn’t boiling noodles in the backseat of my baby.

“You stood in front of a Noodles and Friends for thirty minutes one day, gazing at a bowl of it someone had left behind at a table. You were stopped dead in the street until a worker came and cleared it away.”

Ah. Ha. Yes, I did do that, didn’t I? And Stryker saw it.

How embarrassing.

Except, is it really? I think not, if it has resulted in the acquisition of my favorite food today. I give thanks to past Millie, whose actions have served me well this day.

“You could have saved me from my plight, you know.”

Stryker shakes his head, dumping pasta into the pot. The broccoli follows.

“You know I would never hurt you.” I roll my eyes. Honestly.

“Not everything is about killing, Stryker. I meant you could’vebought me pasta.”

He blinks.

“I was on a reconnaissance mission.”

“So?”

---