Page 41 of Ricochet

Cords of muscle covered each of his arms, and ink decorated them in skulls and script. Not overdone or trashy, but tastefully and artistically etched in a way that gave him the ultimate bad boy appearance. A black tribal, pissed-off looking scorpion with red eyes covered his shoulder, over the ripple of muscle, its stinger snaking up the right side of his neck. I couldn’t help but think of the way a scorpion stunned its prey before consuming it, reminding me of those striking eyes of his. Poisonous venom in one glance. As he approached, small white scars could be seen beneath the ink, as if he’d tried to cover them up.

Damn he looked good. Really good.

What was wrong with me? This guy had kidnapped me, tied me to a bed, and sicced his crazy, hulking dog on me.

At the same time, in an ass-backward universe, one could also say he saved me from my psychopathic husband, fed me with his own hands, and told me his name. Whether it was his or not didn’t seem to matter in my mind. He also hadn’t tied me to the bed in two days, not that I’d been keeping track of pros and cons, or anything.

Beyond him, Blue lay down just outside my door, as though an imaginary threshold existed between us. Good. I hoped he suffered some kind of seizure if he happened to cross over.

Nick handed me the plate, slipped inside the closet-slash bathroom, and the faucet turned on. Once it’d turned off, he appeared at the door a few moments later, drying his hands, and he threw the towel over his shoulder. Good God. He leaned against the doorframe, and I did cross my legs for fear I might stand up to a telling wet spot on the bed. The man defied any previous standards I’d ever conjured inside my head for what a beautiful male specimen might look like.

Arms crossed, he glanced over his shoulder and back to me. “Am I to assume you’re not wearing anything beneath that dress?”

Seriously, what the hell was wrong with me that my nipples popped like a set of turkey timers at his question? “I refuse to wear dirty underwear. Captive, or not, I’ve got standards.” Boom. Argue that, mister. The new me refused to take anyone’s shit.

His head jerked forward. “You tore your dress?”

“It was getting in my way.”

He tugged the towel from his shoulder and tossed it somewhere inside the bathroom. “You don’t need to be walking around here without panties.”

“Making you nervous?” Bold, Aubree. Bold.

Those icy blue eyes shot to me. “If you think tempting me is your ticket to freedom, lady, you’re wrong.”

“Aubree. My name is Aubree. Lady is reserved for women over the age of sixty. Nick.” I tipped my head. “Is that your real name, or the name you offer up all your victims, to make them feel special for a minute before you slit their throats?”

With a slight lift his chin, just enough to assert his dominance, he stared down at me, his tongue making a slow sweep across his teeth, and sweet Lord, the man had my pelvic muscles in a frenzy. “You think I want to slit your throat?”

I shrugged at that. “Just a guess, unless you’re the sensitive quiet type under all that ink and muscle.” In the moments that his eyes narrowed on me and he seemed to study my face, I stole the opportunity to avert a potentially abrupt exit and cleared my throat. “I could use a shower. I tried to take a bath in the sink, but it’s a little cramped.”

The twitch of his cheek told me he wanted to smile. “A shower.”

“Yeah. I don’t suppose you’ve got an extra razor.” I had a feeling he didn’t, but the comment allowed me to focus on the sexy scruff of his face. Some guys just couldn’t pull that look off. Either too much hair or uneven lines that just made them look homeless. Nick had me cataloguing new features of sexy by the minute.

Stop. He’s a kidnapper. For Christ’s sake, stop.

His eyebrow winged up and his gaze landed on my arm, where the scar practically screamed from my wrist.

“N … not for that. I typically wax, but in a few days, I’ll be looking like Sasquatch. Should you decide to kill me, I’d like to keep my dignity intact.”

His jaw shifted back and forth.

For crying out loud, man. Laugh!

“Anything else?” He didn’t ask as though he genuinely cared to jot a list, more like he was irritated that he suddenly had to entertain a shower and a razor.

Yeah, a new pair of underwear, a fluffier pillow, some socks to walk around in, a bottle of wine—what the hell is asking too much? “Paper and pencil for sketching. Maybe a book?”

“Book?” he echoed.

I held both palms up, butterflying them in mocking. “You know, like reading. Words on a page. Some semblance of a plot. A book.”

“What kind of book? One of those romance books with a vampire and wolves?”

His laughter, whether fake or not, took me by surprise, and for the first time I noticed that, beyond those perfectly smirky-looking lips, he had a set of beautiful teeth that made up an adorable smile, complete with dimples.

Dimples. Hardly the vision of a dark and disgusting kidnapper.