Chapter Seven
WHEN I WAKE up the next day, I know exactly where I am.
In a hunting cabin.
His hunting cabin.
The man who’s been lying to me for six months.
He’s been playing me for six whole months just so he could lure me out.
And when I found out his real name, he brought me here.
For revenge. Because something happened to him, didn’t it?
Something bad. I thought it had happened to Bo. But there is no Bo; there’s only him.
The sound of crinkling paper alerts me that I’m not alone, and gasping, I sit up in the bed.
Unlike yesterday, he’s in the room with me. He sits in a chair in the corner, facing the bed. There’s a small table in front of him with a brown paper bag that he was staring at, but as soon as I sit up, his attention shifts to me. His black eyes lock with mine and my breaths hasten.
He looks… rough.
Or rather roughened.
I don’t know what else to call it, but his hair’s all rumpled, sticking out in places as if he’s been running his fingers through it all night.
His stubble seems mussed up as well, thicker than yesterday, darker, and the eyes through which he’s watching me seem red-rimmed and slightly sunken.
With the way he’s sitting there, legs sprawled, leaned over, his elbows on his thighs, it feels like he spent the night in the same position.
Like he never went to sleep.
My thoughts break when he straightens up, his face a blank mask, and sits back. “Good, you’re awake.”
I think I’m still getting used to his voice, all deeply timbred and gravelly, because for the first few seconds after he speaks, I find myself getting lost in his drawling, low-pitched syllables, thinking about the letters, trying to hear the words he wrote.
God, you’re an idiot, Riri. A massive idiot.
“There’s breakfast,” he continues with a tip of his jaw.
Clutching the sheet to my chest, I glance to where he pointed, and sure enough, there’s a plate of eggs, bacon, and toast on the nightstand, along with a glass of juice.
But what my eyes snag and catch on is the muffin that sits by the toast. It’s my favorite, the one he also ordered at the café. The strawberry crumble.
My heart clenches so hard in my chest that I have to consciously make an effort to not curl into a ball.
To not rock and scream, trying to bust the door down with my fists like I did last night after he left me locked up in the room until eventually I passed out only to wake up now.
I want to demand that he take it back, everything he said yesterday.
Everything he revealed. I want him to tell me that he was lying.
That all his letters were true and this is a bad joke.
A nightmarish joke.
I want him to tell me that he’s my Bo. He’s the man I fell in love with and didn’t even realize it until I found out he doesn’t exist.
“Eat it,” he keeps going, his voice all business, breaking into my furious thoughts. “Freshen up, and then we need to leave.”
At this, I go on alert. My pain and heartbreak take a back seat as fear takes over.
“Leave where?” I ask, my voice sounding too high for first thing in the morning.
“For town.”
I shift on the bed, clutching the sheet tighter. “What town? W-Where are we?”
I know he said we’re in the middle of nowhere, but it has to be somewhere. It has to be…
“You don’t need to worry about that,” he says and just like that dismisses me.
He stands up and heads to the door.
With slowly escalating breaths, I watch his long legs eating up the distance to the door like he can’t get out of here fast enough.
Like his life depends on being away from here, from me.
The girl he kidnapped and is now holding against her will.
And that makes me so mad, so fucking mad, that I throw the sheets aside and jump out of bed.
Not only that, but in a blind rage, I pick up the glass of juice and throw it at him. I watch it sail through the air, splashing the liquid everywhere before it hits.
Not him, though.
He gets a few drops of juice on him, but other than that he’s safe.
The glass, unfortunately, hits the door, probably the same spot as the knife, before shattering into countless pieces that rain down on the floor.
The thwack makes me flinch, but I’m not deterred.
I stand with my fists tight, my chest trembling.
Slowly, he turns around to face me.
He glances down at the broken pieces of glass along with puddles of liquid before his eyes come back up to me.
And that roughened look, the one that made me think he probably didn’t sleep at all, is gone.
His eyes are alert now. His thickly stubbled jaw is firmly set, and even though the rest of his features are as blank as ever, I can still sense the thrum of intensity just beneath the surface.
It makes me waver a little bit. That lurking threat, but fuck that.
Fuck being afraid.
Fuck cowering. I’m so angry right now. So, so angry.
And it’s not just him toying with me; it’s also the fact that this is happening in the first place.
That somehow this is my life right now. Somehow, after doing everything right, after being cautious and careful and playing by all the rules, I still ended up here.
I still ended up like my mother, falling for the wrong man.
I lift my chin up. “Tell me where we’re going.”
Because I’m going to fix it.
I’m going to get myself out of here. I’m going to save myself. Unlike my mother. And I’m going to save my best friend too. Because he doesn’t want me, does he? His entire plan—whatever the fuck it is—hinges on Peyton, but he isn’t going to get her.
I won’t let him.
He takes me in, my raised chin, my heaving chest. My fisted hands and my battle stance.
Good.
Let him see I’m not some doormat who’s going to lie down and let him walk all over me. I’m not a little college girl who’ll let him do anything he wants just because he’s a big, bad criminal cowboy.
Once he’s finished with his perusal, I see his chest moving with a long breath as he shifts and leans against the door. He crosses his arms as if he’s hunkering down, settling in for the long haul. Then, “No.”
I clench my fists harder. “So then, I’m not going anywhere with you.”
“I think you are.”
“No, I’m not. Not until you tell me exactly where we’re going and why we’re going there.”
Again, he takes his time responding.
He takes in my cheeks that must be flushed right now; the pulse fluttering in the base of my throat; my hair probably in disarray and all sleep-mussed. And something in his gaze changes. I don’t know what it is, but it darkens and glitters as he challenges, “Or what?”
“Or I’ll…”
I trail off, trying to think of an appropriate response, but he takes advantage of my pause and says, “Scream?”
“You—”
“There’s no one around to hear you. Middle of nowhere, remember?”
“I—”
Cocking his head to the side, he keeps going: “And didn’t you already do that last night?” I open my mouth to retort, but he gets there before me. “Not sure it did anything except give me a headache, so I’d save my breath.”
“Oh, I’ll take the headache,” I say, glaring at him. “Maybe this time if I scream loud enough, I can make your head explode.”
His eyes glitter with a light I don’t understand but that gets my heart racing. “Or maybe I can gag you again. And if that doesn’t take care of the problem, I can always give you the tranq. I don’t want to, but I will.”
My heart thuds. “The tranq?”
“The sedative,” he explains. “Also known as xylazine.”
I frown, my mind racing, and then it dawns on me. “That’s… You gave me a horse tranquilizer?”
His eyes glitter again. “Yeah.”
“But that’s… that’s dangerous. That’s so… It’s found in illegal substances,” I say, my voice squeaky.
“I’m aware.”
“You could’ve overdosed me.”
Something like arrogance flickers through his face before he says, “Haven’t been a cowboy in eight years, but I know my tranq doses. Besides, it was for your own safety.”
“Safety?” I repeat, my voice even squeakier.
“Yeah, more than screamin’ inside my trunk, couldn’t have you movin’ around and hitting somethin’, hurtin’ yourself in the process.”
“But you can’t just… I could’ve been allergic.”
“You seem fine to me, but”—he looks me up and down—“I could always check you for rashes.”
“You—”
“Now, if there’s nothing else, how about you eat your breakfast before it gets cold and then get ready to go.” He jerks his chin at me. “You’ve got thirty minutes.”
God.
Oh my God.
Glaring at him, I snap, “I’m not eating your stupid breakfast.”
“You probably should.”
“What makes you think I’ll eat anything after what you just told me?”
“Probably because you skipped dinner last night and must be hungry.”
My stomach growls as if awakened by his words, and if that light in his eyes is any indication, I know, I know, he hears it. But I ignore it. “No, thank you. I won’t touch the food you give me with a ten-foot pole.” I don’t know what makes me say it, but I add, “Plus, I don’t eat bacon.”
That gives him pause. “What?”
“I’m a vegetarian,” I inform him or, rather, lie.
He looks at me for a second. “You’re a vegetarian.”
“Yes.” Then, “It’s funny that it never came up before.
You know, when you were lying to me and pretending to be my Bo for six whole months.
” I notice his jaw clench at this, but I keep going: “I think killing animals for food is disgusting. Killing animals for sport”—I make it a point to look around the room and at all the animal heads—“is disgusting. You are disgusting.”
Again, he looks at me for a second or two, his jaw tight. Then, with a deep breath, he says, “Fine, I’ll get you some grass to munch on the way.”
“I’m not going anywhere with you,” I snap, barely resisting the urge to stomp my foot. “Not until you answer my questions.”
“Why, do you think you could stop it if you knew where we’re goin’ and what’s gonna happen to you when we get there?”
What’s going to happen to me…
Okay, okay.
Don’t panic.
Do not panic.