I shouldn’t have followed him home. I shouldn’t have even contacted him. Of course he’d do something like kidnap me.
I get that I was on his property. Technically, I broke the law first. But he stabbed me in the neck with a needle, dragged me into his cabin, and—wait, where’s my jacket? I spot it on the couch, my beanie neatly placed on top. He took my jacket off and then tied me up. In front of a nice, warm fire, which I have to admit feels wonderful. He even tucked an airplane pillow around my neck, which is now on the floor a few feet away. I mean, he didn’t have to do that.
No! The kidnapper is not thoughtful. And I should not ask the kidnapper for help finding Shane.
But… what are my options? I have basically no survival skills thanks to my refusal to engage with my family’s business.
I should’ve checked the weather.
I should’ve brought a friend.
I should’ve hired a normal private detective, not accepted a recommendation from my criminal brother. But I know I couldn’t have done that, because it would expose myself and my family to extra scrutiny.
I’d happily throw my father to the authorities. I should’ve. But that would endanger Jake and most definitely myself. And I’m not like my father. I care if people I love are in danger.
When I was a freshman in high school, there was an incident at our house. Ever since my cousin had been murdered, I’d tried to steer clear of my father and his business. One night, Dad had a few associates over for some kind of meeting that involved a lot of alcohol and cursing and obnoxious laughing. As usual, I stayed away, quiet, and was getting ready to go to bed when one of the men cornered me in the upstairs bathroom, where he shouldn’t have been. I smelled the liquor on his breath as he pressed me up against the wall—his disgusting erection pressed against my belly—and whispered vulgar things in my ear. I managed to kick him in the balls and slip out of his grasp as he doubled over in pain.
I didn’t bother telling my father. Instead, I first told my brother, then sixteen, and he paled and said he’d install a deadbolt on the inside of my bedroom door and the bathroom. He did that, but was too chicken to confront my father. Aren’t families supposed to stand up for you? My father and brother should be the ones protecting me. Maybe they weren’t the ones that threw me under the bus, but they’re definitely the ones that left me on the road.
I told my mother, and she at least tried to help. She picked a fight with my father about it and tried to leave him, but my father said I could go with her but not Jake. Momrelented, a sorrowful look on her face. She wouldn’t leave her son. But I felt like I was being sacrificed.
That was an early lesson on how no one in this family would choose me first. Not even my mother.
So I have to choose myself.
Movement outside the cabin window catches my eye, and my jaw drops as I watch Wes stride over the snow-covered ground back toward the cabin with two arms full of firewood balanced on his shoulders. My mouth actually waters, and I try to swallow, but my throat is so dry I almost choke.
Fine. I might have a mask kink. And it would be even closer to my sort of new fantasy if he were shirtless. If Shane wore a mask and tied me up, I’d be terrified. I’d never have asked him to do that. I would want to experience it in a safe way, which sounds fucked up.
I can unpack that at a much later date. Or never.
There’s a sound of firewood hitting the porch boards, then cold air and snowflakes rush in when the front door opens again.
Wes drops the remaining wood on his front mat as he strips out of his jacket, slips his boots off, and turns to me. Is he going to leave the mask on?
And maybe take off his shirt?
Shut up! Dammit.
I roll my eyes and look away from him, but out of the edge of my vision, I see him pull the mask off and run his hand through his longish dark hair.
Wes carries the logs over to the fireplace, and by the flare of fire and crackling sound behind me, I’m guessing he added one to the fire.
“My wrists hurt,” I say. Not that my kidnapperwill care.
“Hmm.”
I feel his presence approach my back from the fireplace, and I turn my head to look over my shoulder.
“What are you doing?” He’s close. So close. I can smell him, fresh air and smoke from the fireplace and some other woodsy scent. A shiver runs down my spine, and I feel his hands on my wrists, gently touching.
“That is red. I’m sorry.” His voice is low and warm and close. And he sounds sincere.
I half expect him to cut the plastic strips off me, but he doesn’t. A kind kidnapper is still a kidnapper. Instead, he heads to his kitchen, which is within my line of sight.
“Want coffee? Hot chocolate? Tea?”
“You’re offering me a beverage?” I huff. “What the fuck kind of kidnapper are you?”
