Chapter Four
Olivia
I roll into the middle of my queen-sized bed, stretching my arms high above my head and releasing a big yawn. The homemade blanket my mom made is bunched up; I must have kicked it off in the night.
One of my favorite parts of the day is waking up early before anyone else. Ticking off my to-do list before some people had even gotten out of bed gives me the feeling of accomplishment that no degree or corporate job ever could.
As my feet hit the floor, I lift my hands up as high as I can before bending down to touch my toes, stretching the sleepiness from my muscles.
First off is a to-do list for the day, ensuring I cover as much as possible now that I’ve got a houseguest to attend to.
- Breakfast for myself and houseguest
- Workout—using new equipment sent to me by Zen Yoga
- Plan out upcoming posts
- Lunch for myself and houseguest
- Check social stats and reply to comments
- Long-term planning
- Call with accountant at four
- Dinner and social time with houseguest
- Bed (alone)
Alone seems an unnecessary addition to “bed.” And yes, I write “bed” on my to-do list. Those who don’t understand the utterly gratifying feeling of ticking something off their list wouldn’t get it. But those who are relentless list-makers like myself wouldn’t bat an eye.
I chew the end of my pen, thinking if there’s anything else I can squeeze into the day, but honestly, I think with the head injury, what I’ve already got to do might be too much. I should maybe try and take it easy today.
Images of Austin come to me suddenly and so vividly. Maybe he’s an early riser like me, and he’s waiting for me to come down to talk to him. Is he lonely? Hungry? Sleeping okay?
Sleep had evaded me last night. Thoughts of robbers and killers creeping their way into my house and up to my bedroom seeped through my subconscious until all I could do was listen for every creak and groan of this old house.
Most likely because of the man locked up in my basement, but honestly, I kept feeling like there was someone walking about the house.
I’ve never been scared to live alone and never had an issue with creaky floorboards and drafts.
I’ve been taking care of myself and Danny for so long that my childhood fears were long gone.
But last night felt different. Maybe it really was just because Austin was here.
Or maybe someone had come looking for him and decided to search my house in the middle of the night.
My plan is to subtly interrogate him today. To find out if I should expect any unwanted visitors. Then maybe I can search for that person online, just so I know what they look like.
I bite my thumbnail as I pace the living room.
What in the hell am I doing? The bright light of day was shining through the window and showing me all the fucked-up things I’d done in the last twenty-four hours.
What was I doing kidnapping a man who would obviously have people out looking for him?
I bet they’re on their way here now. I’d put myself and Danny in irrevocable danger.
But he does like me. His actions last night proved that. Maybe I could swing this in my favor just quick enough before anyone realizes where he is. I lift my fingers to the scab on my forehead and wince. I’m lucky; the injury could have been so much worse.
He did help me when I got knocked out, so I can hold faith that he is, at least, a tiny bit of a good person.
But only because he wouldn’t let me die on the floor.
And if we’re thinking clearly and objectively, which I absolutely am when it comes to this man, that bar is too low to be set as a standard for men.
I do have one other thing in my favor. And the thing is that I’m a woman.
And the thing about being a woman is that, more often than not, our ideas and actions are overlooked by others.
And who would suspect a fitness vlogger of kidnapping?
In the words of Elle Woods, our lord and savior, exercise gives us endorphins, and endorphins make us happy.
Happy people just don’t kill their husbands.
And no, Austin Black is not my husband, not my boyfriend, or my lover.
But the last option has crossed my mind. Woah. No. No. No. Thanks very much. We’ll call time out on that thought.
My head thumped from my thoughts ping-ponging back and forth, relentlessly swinging between one possible outcome and another. I need to calm down, stick to my routine, and follow my list.
After quickly checking that the lock and deadbolt to the basement are still in place, I head to the kitchen to make breakfast.
I unlock the door, take a deep breath, and head down the stairs carrying two plates. I always think meals are much better shared and even with a reluctant house guest, it’s important to keep up good manners.
“Morning, Killer,” Austin’s throaty voice sounds out.
His eyes roam down my pink silky sleep shorts and strappy top.
The lace trim is black and makes me feel pretty, even barefaced, with my hair poking out at all angles.
My first reaction is to scrunch my body and cower.
His eyes on me feel like he’s looking at his next meal, wondering which piece of me to bite first. Heat builds low in my core without permission, and I can’t help but take him in as well.
His dark hair is mussed from sleep, his face perfectly at ease, as if he hadn’t just slept with a chain around his waist that connects him to my hot water pipe.
He’s removed his shirt since last night, his strong chest exposed as the blanket covers just below his waist. His abs are visible.
I can’t help myself. He is fucking built to perfection.
I have no doubt we could work out together.
Those muscles aren’t just for show; this guy is strong—all the more reason to keep him chained up.
He smirks, and my eyes are drawn to his as he arches an eyebrow. I ignore it.
“Good morning. Scrambled egg on toasted rye, spinach, and cherry tomatoes.”
“If your method of torture is a good night’s sleep and delicious food, you’re doing a great job.”
I hand him the plate cautiously, and he takes it just as gently, bowing his head a little with a smirk that could melt my panties clean off, if I were wearing any, that is.
I pull up my chair and tuck in. I’d forgone cutlery, thinking it was probably sensible not to hand a knife to the man I was holding in my basement. So I pick up the toast and take a big bite, watching as Austin does the same.
In less than three seconds, an audible groan escapes him.
“Fuck . . . what is that? It’s delicious.”
I try to contain the twitch in my cheek pulling at my lips. “I put turmeric in. It’s good for your blood pressure, and it’s said to help with muscle soreness after working out.”
He nods, taking another bite. “There’s something else...”
“Chili flakes. Just a sprinkle. ”
“It’s the best breakfast I’ve had in a while,” he says, taking another enormous mouthful.
I keep eating, chewing each bite, and sitting quietly.
I know it’s not sane to want the approval of my captive, but I just can’t help myself.
When I hear him mutter, “I need a new chef,” I almost jump for joy.
I’m damn good at my job, and although cooking isn’t fundamentally what I do, it’s an intrinsic part of my business, and offering recipes is something I’ve been looking to do more of.
Feeling the need to explain myself, I say, “I, uh, have things I need to do today. But I’ll be back at lunchtime with some more food.”
“What do you have planned?” he asks as I take his empty plate.
“The usual. I’m reviewing some new gym equipment for a supplier, and then I’ll be doing some socials this afternoon. Pretty standard.”
“Do you like what you do?”
Not a question I would have expected him to ask, and suspicion rises in my throat.
I know he’s only being nice so I let him leave.
He’s probably kidnapped enough people to know that if you can’t initially fight your way out, you have to play the long game and win their trust. But that won’t be happening with me.
“I do. I get to do what I’m good at and share it with the world.”
He nods. “You help people.”
Yes, exactly. “I try to.”
He smiles, a small dimple forming beneath his day-old stubble. He looks good with a bit of scruff. His normal look is so clean-cut, with sharp lines. The rough ironically softens him.
“You might be the worst kidnapper in the world. I’m pretty sure you’re meant to make me feel awful while I’m here. Not give me a comfortable bed and a nine-hour sleep.”
“You’re not here to be tortured. You’re here to listen. And eventually, once I’ve won you over, give me my brother back.”
He ponders my words, and I head toward the stairs, eager to get my day started.
“Olivia . . .”
I turn and see he’s pulled one foot up onto the bed, his arm resting on his knee. The picture of relaxation, leaned back against the wall. If I took his photo and posted it now, my following would increase by ten percent within a day, I’m sure of it.
“Have you thought that your brother might not want to be set free?” He speaks softly, like the tone of a police officer who has come to tell you that your relative has been in an accident. There’s a pity in it that I can’t stomach.
Of course I’ve thought about it. But he’s nineteen; he’s too young to commit his whole life to this man. Our parents would never have allowed it.
Heading toward the stairs, I don’t reply. I don’t want to argue with him, and regardless, it doesn’t seem the best way to get him on my side.
“I’ll be back later, okay? Think things over.”
“Wait . . . how's your head?”
“Oh.” I pause and turn back around. Placing the plates on the shelving unit, I run my fingers through my hair and push it back, revealing the scab running along my forehead. “It’s not too bad.”