Page 39 of Captive Bride

When Thelma comes home, what will she think?

I feel her terror as if it was my own, partially because it is.

She’ll be worried sick.

Theo’s image forms in my head next, fearful, angry.

Theo and Thelma aren’t like my father. They aren’t violent by nature. It would take something absolutely dire to make them so.

Something, for example, like me being kidnapped.

I see it all so clearly, the entire weight of the Capulets falling down on these men.

They’re already dead and haven’t even realized it.

I try again to find comfort in the fact, but my stomach only knots up tighter, my skin breaking out in a cold sweat.

I feel a hand fall on my shoulder and nearly jump out of my skin.

Turning so fast I almost give myself whiplash, I find Tristan Montague himself. Somehow, I missed his approach.

“Isobel,” he says, his thumb tracing a line across the bare skin of my arm.

I don’t so much as blink, turning back to the window and the endless stream of raindrops.

“I know you’re probably scared,” he says. “But don’t worry, I’m not gonna hurt you.”

A particularly large drop of water rolls through my field of vision. I pretend it’s the most hypnotic thing I’ve ever witnessed.

“Isobel,” he says again. “You can’t just ignore me.”

I lean towards the window, my forehead pressing against the cold glass.

From behind me, I hear him growl. It’s a quiet sound but nonetheless full of anger.

Chills race through my body.

My hand clenches tightly against the seat.

Still, I say nothing.

“Isobel,” he says, softly this time.

If I didn’t know better, I’d say there’s pain in his voice.

I pretend not to hear.

I pretend that his breath on my neck isn’t making my heart race and my chest heave.

I stare out the window.

Minutes seem to pass—maybe it’s already been hours. In reality, I know it’s been only moments.

Finally, I feel him leave me, a void seeming to open at my back. Cold air rushes in to occupy the space he left.

I hear them speaking, this time in hushed voices.

I don’t try to make out the words. They don’t matter anyway.

I try to calm my traitorous heart instead, try to slow its furious beating.

My gaze tracks the rain.

Outside, the rain never slows. It whips wildly against the car, more ferocious than ever.

My eyes keep track, trying to measure each drop.

Trying to tune out the sound of his voice.

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