Taken By the Outlaw (Obsessed #5)

Chapter 1

one

Emilia

The library is empty at this hour, just the way I like it. Closing time always brings a specific kind of peace—the smell of old books, the soft echo of my footsteps against the polished floor, the gentle click of lights switching off one by one. I run my finger along the spines of the classics section, savoring the moment before I have to step outside into the real world. If I'd known what waited for me in the darkness tonight, I would have barricaded myself among these shelves until morning.

"Goodnight, Ms. West," calls the security guard as I slip through the staff exit.

"Goodnight," I respond softly, tugging my oversized cardigan closer around my body.

The night air hits me with a chill that makes me quicken my pace. The streetlights cast long shadows on the pavement, and I adjust the strap of my bag, heavy with borrowed books I couldn't resist taking home. My apartment is only fifteen minutes away, but tonight I've stayed later than usual finishing the catalog updates.

The shortcut through the business district is something I rarely take this late, but exhaustion wins over caution. Empty storefronts and darkened office buildings line the street, their windows like vacant eyes watching me pass. My footsteps sound too loud in the silence, and I find myself holding my breath at odd intervals.

A crash echoes from somewhere ahead, and I freeze. My heart gives a weird little flutter, the kind that happens when you're startled but trying to convince yourself it's nothing. Just someone dropping something, I tell myself. Or maybe a cat knocking over a trash can.

But then I hear voices—low, harsh, angry. Male voices.

I should turn around right now. Walk away. Call someone.

Instead, curiosity pulls me forward on trembling legs. I've spent nineteen years behind books, imagining other lives, other risks. Something primal in me wants to see, just for a moment, what danger looks like up close.

I creep toward the sound, staying close to the buildings. There's an alley ahead, and the voices grow louder. I peek around the corner and immediately wish I hadn't.

Four men in leather jackets stand outside the back door of what I recognize as the high-end jewelry store. The door is open, its alarm system clearly disabled. One man holds a gun. Another is loading something into duffel bags. A third keeps watch. And the fourth...

My breath catches in my throat.

The fourth man stands with his back to me, but there's something about him that makes my skin prickle. He's taller than the others, broader in the shoulders, and even from behind, I can tell he's in charge. There's authority in the set of his stance, in the way the others keep glancing at him as if waiting for approval.

"Hurry the fuck up," he growls, and his voice slides down my spine like ice water.

I should leave. I need to leave. My body tenses to run, but in my haste, I bump against a metal trashcan. The sound, though slight, might as well be a gunshot in the quiet night.

Four heads snap in my direction.

My blood turns to slush. I duck back behind the building, pressing myself flat against the wall, hoping somehow they didn't really see me. My heart pounds so hard I'm sure they can hear it.

Heavy footsteps approach. I turn to run, but my legs have forgotten how to work.

"Well, well. What do we have here?" A rough hand grabs my arm, and I'm yanked back toward the alley.

My captor is a thick-set man with a beard and cold eyes. He drags me into the light spilling from the broken door, and I'm suddenly facing all four men.

"Found a little mouse," the bearded man announces, shoving me forward.

I stumble, nearly falling, and look up to find myself staring into the coldest blue eyes I've ever seen. It's him—the leader—and up close, he's terrifying in his beauty. Dark hair, sharp cheekbones, a mouth that's currently pressed into a hard line. He wears his danger like expensive cologne, and I shrink beneath his scrutiny.

"What were you doing back there?" he asks, his voice deceptively soft.

I can't speak. My throat has closed up, and my vision starts to blur at the edges.

He steps closer, and I catch his scent—leather, smoke, and something darker. "I asked you a question."

"I-I was just walking home," I manage to whisper. "From the l-library."

His gaze flickers to my bag, noticing the edges of books poking out. One dark eyebrow rises slightly.

"Kill her," says one of the other men. "She saw our faces."

My knees nearly buckle.

"Shut up," the leader snaps without looking away from me. He studies me for a moment longer, and I swear I see something shift in those ice-blue eyes. Interest, maybe. Or calculation.

"What's your name?" he demands.

"Emilia," I whisper. "Emilia West."

He nods once, as if confirming something to himself. "Emilia West, the librarian. Well, Emilia, you've created quite a problem for yourself tonight."

"I won't tell anyone," I promise quickly. "I didn't see anything. I don't?—"

"You're a terrible liar." His mouth quirks up at one corner, not quite a smile. "But that's not necessarily a bad thing."

I don't understand what's happening. Why isn't he more worried? Why is he looking at me like I'm a puzzle he's trying to solve?

"Boss," the bearded man says urgently. "We need to move."

The leader—the boss—nods without taking his eyes off me. "Finish loading the van. I'll handle this."

My heart sinks. Handle this. I know what that means.

"Please," I whisper. "I have a family. My mom is sick, and my sister?—"

"Do you always talk this much when you're scared?" he interrupts, and there's a hint of amusement in his voice that makes me want to scream. How can he be entertained when I'm about to die?

"Only when I'm about to be murdered," I retort before I can stop myself.

Something flashes in his eyes—surprise, maybe even respect. Then he laughs, a sound so unexpected and rich it momentarily stuns me.

"I'm not going to kill you, little librarian," he says, reaching out to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. The casual intimacy of the gesture makes me flinch. "That would be a waste."

Behind him, the others have finished loading whatever they stole. The van's engine rumbles to life.

"Clark," one of them calls. "Now."

Clark . The leader's name is Clark. It seems too ordinary for someone like him.

Clark nods without looking away from me. "Change of plans. She's coming with us."

"What?" The word bursts out of me. "No, I can't?—"

His hand clamps over my mouth, and he pulls me against him with an arm around my waist. I'm crushed against his chest, feeling the hard planes of muscle beneath his jacket.

"Listen carefully," he murmurs, his lips close to my ear. "You have two options. Come quietly, or I'll knock you out and carry you. Either way, you're coming with me."

Terror floods me, but beneath it is something else—a traitorous heat that flares where our bodies touch. What is wrong with me?

"I promise you'll be safe," he continues, so quietly I barely hear him. "But you're a liability I can't leave behind. Do you understand?"

I can't nod with his hand over my mouth, but something in my eyes must answer him because he slowly removes his hand.

"Why not just let me go?" I ask, my voice shaking. "I swear I won't?—"

"Because I don't believe you," he cuts me off. "And because I don't want to."

That last part hangs in the air between us, strange and heavy with meaning I can't decipher. Then his arm tightens around me, and he's leading me toward the van.

"Get in," he orders, opening the side door.

Inside, the other three men stare at me with varying expressions of disbelief and annoyance.

"Boss, you can't be serious," the bearded one starts.

"Did I ask for your opinion?" Clark's voice has turned to steel, and the man immediately falls silent.

Clark guides me into the van with a firm hand on my lower back, the heat of his palm burning through my cardigan. He follows me in, sliding the door shut with a sound of finality that makes my stomach drop.

As the van lurches into motion, I sit rigidly between Clark and the wall, trying to make myself as small as possible. The other men eye me suspiciously, but no one speaks. The weight of Clark's presence beside me is overwhelming—he's not touching me anymore, but I feel him like a physical force, pulling at something deep inside me.

"Where are you taking me?" I whisper.

Clark turns those ice-blue eyes on me again. In the dim light of the van, they seem to glow.

"Somewhere safe," he says. "For now."

"For how long?"

His gaze travels over my face, lingering on my mouth in a way that makes my cheeks heat. "That depends."

"On what?"

One corner of his mouth lifts in that not-quite-smile. "On how long it takes me to figure out what to do with you."

The way he says it—low, almost intimate—sends a shiver through me that has nothing to do with fear. And that terrifies me more than anything else. Because whatever this feeling is—this strange, unwelcome pull toward this dangerous man—it's not something I understand.

And as the van carries me deeper into the night, away from everything familiar and safe, I have the sinking feeling that nothing in my life will ever be the same again.