Page 49 of Red Flags Only

“Kidnapping,” he declares. “We’ll do the kidnapping trope.”

Um. No, I do not think we will.

“No kidnapping,” I insist, nuzzling until I find a colder spot to put my nose – his collarbone is particularly wintry this evening, bless all.

“Yes kidnapping,” he retorts, spinning us around in what I can only assume is an attempt to make me vomit. I, miraculously, resist. Gold stars for Lyra Gold. “The girlies love a good kidnapping.”

“The girlies? Again? Who are these ‘girlies’ who love all these tropes?” My hands inch up to his collar, stretching it as they reach inside, desperate for some of the chill my face is enjoying.

He stills, then clears his throat.

“You. You are ‘the girlies’.”

I most assuredly am not. “Don’t think so,” I reply. “Don’t think so at all.”

“You’ve loved it in every Rouge novel it’s ever been featured in,” he reminds me. Rude of him. “And you’re about to love it now. Do you need me to grab anything before we go? Your phone? Purse? Emotional support Diet Coke?”

I gasp. “Those aresecret.”

Can’t a girl have a confidential garage stash of Diet Coke without her best friend announcing it to the world all willy nilly? Whatisthis?

“Oh, sorry, do you want me to grab a kombucha instead?” He gags, and I nearly do too.

No, I really do not want him to grab a kombucha instead. Health drinks are only to be forced down when I am healthy. Sickness is for sodas, which scratch the throatjustright and coat them in syrup or sugar or some other soda magic that makes them not hurt quite so much.

“If you get me a kombucha, I’m cancelling my subscription to our friendship,” I inform him, except actually it comes out more like, “Noooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo.” But. You know. Same thing, really.

“Diet Coke it is,” he says. “I’ll have Mars pick some up though. No use depleting your stash when I should be stocking it for you anyway.”

Mars? Mars Rogue, going to the store and buying contraband for me? “He can’t do that,” I say, nosing Jove’s shirt further aside in search of new coolness. “That’s illegal.”

He snorts, jostling me as he sets me in his truck. Teleportation is a cool skill to have. I do not know why he didn’t teleport us straight to my deep freezer, though, considering that is where I would truly like to be.

“Kidnapping is illegal too,” I tell him, opening my eyes enough to squint at him through the stinging afternoon light. I regret this immediately and throw my head back with a groan, covering my eyes with my hands. “You’ve brought me here to suffer. Kidnappingandtorture. Double illegal.”

“The law is a suggestion,” he replies as his hand slides against my stomach to buckle me in. “The torture will beover soon. I don’t live far.”

I would care about that information if I weren’t so busy dying. And complaining. Lots and lots of complaining.

“It hurts, Jupie. My head and my throat and my whole body. I want to be in my freezer. I want to be taken out back and put out of my misery. I want to be anywhere but in this truck hurtling down the road at top speed and hitting every pothole in the state of West Virginia. You don’t love me anymore, is that it? That’s why you’ve chosen to do this to me? Is because of hate?”

Jove, for his part, blasts the air conditioner and pats my knee, assuring me that he does, in fact, still love me, and that he is taking me to his house because “it’ll be easier.” Whatever “it” is. My death, I hope.

After one millennium of nausea-inducing bumps, turns, and hills, Jove stops the truck.

“Are we at my end?” I whimper. “Please, let us be at my end.”

“We’re at my house,” he says. “Where you will have an evening of healing.”

Right. Healing. Great.

“You could end this so quickly,” I tell him when he scoops me into his arms again. “You said so yourself that the law is merely a suggestion.”

“Not the one about preserving human life,” he replies, walking us into a much-too-warm house. I peek an eye open, bracing for the blinding light I experienced outside. Instead, I’m met with a soft, cozy glow. Opening my other eye, I use what energy I have to look around.

The house is smaller than I would have expected, considering Jove and his brother’s millionaire status. It’s homey. Warm.

The living room is almost entirely taken up by their couch, where a green blanket has been haphazardly thrownover the armrest, and an enclosure that likely holds Mars’ hamster, Ginger, who I’ve read much about over the years.

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