Page 65 of Oh No, My Kidnapper Is Hot!

The orange juice is gone in two minutes flat and then magically replaced with water. I wrinkle my nose.

“You need water too,” Stryker booms. “If you drink it all, I’ll give you some more orange juice.”

Only pouting a little, I take a sip.

Wow. Water isgood. I chug the whole glass, amazed as my energy levels rise. I’m even able to sit up!

“Eat this,” Stryker says, several decibel levels quieter. He presents me with pancakes smothered in syrup with a side of blueberries. I look at his plate and see that he’screated his signature pancake monstrosity, and has added a protein shake to go with it.

“Are you made of protein?” I ask. He chuckles lightly, but doesn’t answer. I eye him. I was not joking.

I consider his biceps as I chow through my food, then his legs. His neck. His back. Hisshoulders.

Totally made of protein.

“It’s kind of hot in here,” I say around a mouthful of berries. Stryker’s eyebrows rise.

“Think that’s because you’ve been checking me out for twenty minutes, sweetheart.”

Oh.

I clear my throat and whip my head around to fully face my plate, mentally locking it in place. I havegotto stop doing that!

“Sorry!”

“Doesn’t bother me if my wife wants to have a look,” he says. “In fact, if it would help, I could strip down. Give you a clearer view.”

“That’s okay!” I squeak. I don’t address the “wife” title, or the fluttering in my stomach at the sound of his deep voice giving it to me.

“Maybe later,” he mutters, taking a long drink of his shake. I choke on a bite of pancake, and it takes three pounds of Stryker’s massive hand on my back to dislodge it.

“I’m okay,” I wheeze, sliding off my stool. Stryker stands too, and I wave him off. “I’m going to go shower,” I tell him. Giving me a skeptical look, he nods.

“When you’re done I’d like to talk,” he tells me. My eyes dart to his face, trying to decipher what he could mean by that. Didn’t we talk enough last night? I’m supposed to be processing right now! What’s with all the talking?

“Talk?” I ask.

“Talk.” he answers mysteriously. “After.” He pushes me down the hallway and into the bathroom, shutting the door behind me. Okay then. I guess we’ll talk after.

I don’t know whether to hurry or stall, so I do a combination, panicking through both. Is he going to send me away? Is he going to take back everything he said last night? The thought makes my stomach drop and my panic increase.

He can’t do that. He can’t dangle the perfect life right in front of me and then yank it away less than twelve hours later. It’s not right. It’s notfair.

I want family dinners. I want walking the dogs in the mornings and prank wars at night. I even want stupid Stryker. With his stupid name and his stupid shoulders and the stupid way he cares for me and the stupid stupid stupid marriage in the woods with me pinned to a car. I want it all, and he said I could have it. He’s not going to change his mind now.

I’m not going to let him.

I’m going to take what I want. I’m going to be brave – going to push past the big, scary feeling in my gut that says I might lose it all, and I’m going to make sure Idon’tlose it. I’m not going to give anyone, least of allStryker, the chance to take it away.

He made the offer. No take-backsies.

I scrub angrily at my legs, not stopping until they’re an angry red. Yes, perfect. Now they match how I feel. I rinse them, relishing in the outside representation of my inside feelings.

I turn the water off and take just enough time to wrap myself in a towel before stomping my way to the living room. I find Stryker stretched out on the couch watchingMiraculous, casual as could be. What a flippant jerk!

“I’m staying, and that’s it!” I snap at him. He takes inmy towel-clad form with wide eyes before they shoot to my face and stay there.

“What?” he asks. “Why are you–”

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