Page 31 of Stolen
Stolen.
Taken across some magical veil by a man with glowing eyes and a voice that could melt the spine out of a nun.
Captured, sure.
But weirdly?
Not exactly a hardship.
Because Alaric is tall, dark, and apocalyptically sexy in a way that should be illegal.
And when he looks at me like I’m something rare, somethinghis, my whole body gets confused about what’s happening.
Still, I should be panicking. Screaming. Plotting escape.
But here I am, calmly wandering through aliteral fantasy library, running my fingers along books older than the United States, casually inhaling the scent of magic and dust like I belong here.
Idon’tbelong here.
Do I?
I should want to go home.
But home to what?
My shitty apartment with the dripping faucet and the neighbor who blasts disco music at 3 a.m.?
To bartending for smug finance bros who tip like I’m a vending machine with boobs?
To overdue bills, aching loneliness, and a life that feels more like surviving than living?
Yeah. Hard pass.
So okay, go ahead.
Call me delusional.
Say I have Stockholm Syndrome.
That I’m the dumb girl in every B-horror flick who trips while running and gets snatched by the monster.
Whatever.
Because for the first time inforever, I feel alive.
Like I’ve stepped into a story I didn’t even know I’d been aching for.
I’m not just watching life happen to someone else through a screen.
I’minit.
Living it.
Breathing it.
Even if it feels unreal.
Even if this place is quiet.Too quiet.
