I unbuckled my seatbelt, zipped up my heavy winter coat, and climbed out of the car. The motel parking lot wasn’t full at all. Dirty light fixtures reflected in the half-frozen puddles on the asphalt. The building was dingy. The motel sign was cracked, with some of it broken away to reveal the bare bulbs underneath.
I did my best to ignore how ugly the place was, still feeling the sting of that “Princess” insult when I shouldn’t have. At least he could’ve come up with something original and mildly witty.
The weight of his gaze remained heavy on me. It was clear he expected me to do something. Run or scream or beg for mercy. Instead, I fought against the ever-present thread of panic and walked around the car to stand next to him like a good little hostage. I had to be smart about this if I had any hope of surviving. I couldn’t flee at the first chance like a panicked rabbit.
My kidnapper was too smart for that. I needed to be smarter than him.
“Act normal,” he warned, putting his arm around my shoulder. “It’s not just your life on the line.”
With his arm around me, pulling me close, I was aware of how hard his body was, even under his coat and suit. Men who worked out a lot had very firm bodies, even when they weren’t flexing. So he was not only ruthless but physically strong. Not that I was turned on by the body of my kidnapper. This wasn’t some freaky Stockholm Syndrome thing. He smelled of musk and sandalwood. I swore I would hate those scents for the rest of my life, which I desperately hoped would stretch on for at least seventy more years.
He walked me into the motel office. I had to stand there at his side as he checked in as if nothing was wrong. I was sweating, my heart pounding while I tried not to look like a hostage. But the clerk barely looked at us. He took my kidnapper’s cash and handed over two scuffed-up key cards, which my captor immediately pocketed for himself.
Our room was on the first floor, at the far end of the two-story motel. Room number eight. My kidnapper glanced at me after he backed the Audi into a slot outside the room.
“You did good in there.”
A raw, bitter laugh escaped my lips. “Did I have a choice?”
“You always have a choice.”
“Then I choose to be somewhere else, far away from you.”
He grunted. “The feeling’s mutual, Princess.”
What the hell was that supposed to mean? Was he complaining that I was somehow making his life difficult? Not only was he a cold-blooded killer, but he was also an asshole.
He didn’t say anything else. He got out of the car first, and I followed. It felt positively surreal to take my carry-on luggage out of the backseat, knowing that only a short time earlier I’d been packing it for a three-week holiday trip to the Caribbean. For a few vertigo-inducing seconds, I wasn’t certain this was real and not a nightmare.
My kidnapper grabbed a black duffel bag out of the trunk, never taking his eyes off me for long. I stood by the passenger-side door, leaning on my suitcase, still acting like a perfect little hostage. He used the keycard on the electronic lock, pushed the door open, and scanned the shabby room as if expecting an attack. Then he turned back to me. He swept a hand into the room with a graceful gesture and bowed.
What a prick. But when I was hating him for being an obnoxious jerk, I didn’t feel as terrified of him. That was disturbing because it was dangerous, even though the feeling didn’t last. The fear always won out. I needed to be careful. At no point could I let my guard down around this man. He was far too dangerous.
The room was ugly as sin, but at least it had two beds. That was reassuring. The thought of sleeping in the same bed as my kidnapper gave me hives. The walls were beige, the carpet brown, and the one table looked older than I was. The heater seemed to work. While it was loud and the air it put out smelled weird, it didn’t smell like mildew. More like…ramen noodles.
“Put your suitcase on the stand,” my kidnapper ordered. He tossed his duffel bag on the bed closest to the door and shrugged out of his overcoat and suit jacket. “Make yourself at home.”
“Are you going to kill me here?” I asked, staring at him. I dared him to look me in the eyes and admit it like a man. Mostly, I wanted to be reassured that he wasn’t going to harm me. Even if it was a lie. Maybe I could make him feel guilty.
What was I thinking? He was an assassin. They didn’t feel guilty.
“Why?” he demanded. “This place isn’t posh enough to be murdered in for your taste?”
“This isn’t funny for me, you son of a bitch.”
He cocked his head slightly to the side. His stare was piercing, intense, unnerving. Then he nodded as if deciding something.
A chill surged through me, and my heart staggered in my chest as I was suddenly terrified he’d decided to kill me after all.
Me and my big mouth.
“Sit down,” he ordered instead of shooting me.
“What—?”
“Sit.Down.”
I sat on the edge of the second bed, my body still vibrating with fear. The bedsprings creaked. My heart started pounding twice as fast. My hands clasped together in my lap so tightly that I was almost hurting myself.
