Page 6 of Oh No, My Kidnapper Is Hot!

I eye him, disbelieving, then take stock of the space we’re in – and it’s frustrating lack of usable weapons.

The room is just big enough to fit a bed, a nightstand, asmall dresser, and a chair. The furniture is solid wood – worn, but not so worn that I could, say, break off a chunk to slam over a man’s head… should the need arise.

I see no conveniently sharp knick-knacks either. Three shelves of books above the bed offer slim volumes I could probably crush a bug with. I glance at Stryker. Unfortunately, he has not turned into a bug. I tilt my head. Possibly a toad, which those books are ill-equipped to handle. I turn my attention back to my search.

The nightstand holds a sturdy lamp. That holds promise. I could use it for a little bit of blunt force traumaorI could wrap the cord around his throat.

I do love a multi-use tool.

The rest of the space is less fruitful, giving me only smooth surfaces and minimal clutter. The floor is the same hardwood as the rest of the house, and he’s covered it with some sort of animal hide rug. Cow maybe? Gross.

Green coats the room, except for the wood of the furniture and floors. The walls are green. The bookshelves above the bed are green. The throw blanket on the chair in the corner is green. Even the bedding is several different shades of green. I… love it.

Until I notice the army green cot on the floor.

I stare at the meager pile of bedding on top of it – a pillow, a sheet, and a neatly folded blanket that looks like it couldn’t keep a fly warm, let alone a person.

Is that meant for me?

Don’t be stupid, Millie.

Of course it’s meant for me. Do I see any other captives here? No. Clearly the sad, cold sleeping arrangements are for me. I’m probably lucky he’s providing me a blanket at all. And a pillow? I am in the lap of kidnapee luxury, for sure. Royalty among the abducted. Just call me Princess Millie.

I have got to get out of here.

I turn my head from my future nighttime accommodations to check out the window situation. Green curtains bracket the windows on three walls. I have one fleeting moment of hope before my brain registers what’s outside the windows.

Bars. Iron bars, it looks like. They are the opposite of encouraging for my departure plans. I could cry.

While I’m lamenting the barred windows, Grouchy moves to the bed and drops me on it.

Oof.

He turns to the nightstand and opens its drawer. I don’t have time to do much more than sit myself up before he’s facing me again, holding a set of handcuffs with an abnormally long chain connecting the two sides. The chain is maybe seven or eight feet, if I had to guess.

He clicks one end of it to my right wrist, and I stare in shock as he attaches the other end to himself. I look from the chain to his stupidly satisfied face and back.

“You just handcuffed us together,” I say.

“Sure did,” he responds, smug. He just handcuffed us together, and he soundssmugabout it.

I’m going to kill him.

Yelling, I lunge at him, aiming for anything that will get me closer to my goal – his demise. It goes about as well as one would expect considering his height and bulk and my lack thereof. I don’t get a single hit in before I’m flat on my back with four trillion pounds of muscle over me, pinning my arms and legs to the bed.

“Now, Millicent, that’s no way to treat a new friend,” he says in that same self-satisfied voice. I could hit him. Iwillhit him. I jerk my head forward to headbutt him only for him to be too far away. What a jerk.

“Here’s the deal,” he says. “You’ve been gettin’ in myway.”

I turn my head to bite his arm, but it’s also out of reach.

“I’ve been patient,” he continues, “but there’s only so much a man can take.” He moves his head closer, and I take the opportunity to make another attempt at a headbutt. If I just keep trying, eventually I’ll get one in. It’s basic statistics. I think. I didn’t pay much attention to that in school either. He dodges, then adjusts us so that he’s holding both of my arms with one hand. He uses his now free hand to grip my hair, keeping my head in place. I glare. He smiles. I transfer my glare to the ceiling, and he exhales an amused huff.

“You’re actually entertaining when you aren’t interfering with my work,” he says.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I angle my head to line my teeth up with his forearm. “I don’t even know you.”

This guy is deranged. Interfering with his work? What work? Stealing candy from babies?

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