Chapter 11

HIGH HEELS AND HOSTAGES

11

I expect to wake up still in Killian's arms outside the barn or perhaps somewhere cozier where it's just the two of us. But instead of the warm festive bar I left behind, I come to in a ghostly open space where I'm tied to a chair and gagged with duct tape.

Whaaaaat?

In the semi-darkness, I strain my eyes to better assess my surroundings. The building I'm imprisoned in has a tall ceiling and walls made of dilapidated wooden planks. If I had to guess, I'd say I'm being held in a run-down barn. Half abandoned, judging from the way the structure is coated in years of dust and dirt and the cobwebs that spread over the beams. The air is thick with the stench of manure and rotting hay.

A pitchfork and other rusted farming tools rest against a stall alongside hooks and iron hoops. At least there are no chains nailed to the wall, making me hope I haven't suddenly traveled to a horror novel.

Still, as I look down at myself, my ankles are each tied to one of the chair's legs with a coarse rope, and my hands painfully stretched behind my back and bound as well.

Not exactly your typical rom-com setting. The clothes are the same, though. I'm dressed in my country uniform of a knotted checkered shirt and jeans—longer than shorty-shorts this time. The hem reaches to about mid-calf, but it still isn't long enough to spare the skin of my ankles from being brutally bitten in by the rope. And I'm still wearing those ridiculously high-heeled clogs I had at the bakery.

Blisters or not, fantasy me doesn't give up on her fashion. But problematic footwear is the least of my concerns now. What the heck am I doing here? I keep looking at my surroundings for any clues.

The barn is almost completely dark. The only light filters in through the cracked sidings at the front of the room, where a massive door rests crooked on its hinges. From the cold glow, I can tell the light is artificial, which makes me assume it must be night in Lakeville Hills.

I eye the door again. It seems to be the only way out of the barn, except for a too-high window, and so my only viable escape route.

What am I supposed to do here? Engineer an escape? MacGyver some explosive out of cow poo and twine and blast my way out? Or patiently wait to be rescued by my dashing hero?

I find myself hoping this isn't too much of a feminist book. I'll happily play the damsel in distress and let myself be rescued, thank you very much. Half the time, I think I'm just making up stories in my head while I dream, but then something like this happens—something I'd never dream up for myself—and I almost feel like I've literally splashed through the blank pages of Killian's book. It's almost as if we're completing the unfinished story together.

The sound of a padlock being jostled brings my focus back to the door. Next, I hear a metallic snap and a dull thud.

Adrenaline floods my system when the door opens a crack and then shuts again just as quickly.

My eyes take a second to readjust to the near-total obscurity after the blinding flash of light. But even in the semi-darkness, I can distinguish the livid face of the man advancing on me. Killian looks like he's struggling to keep himself from exploding.

He's utterly terrifying in his fury, but I'm not scared, not of him.

I'm pretty sure he isn't the one who tied me to this chair, but he definitely isn't happy with me, or how I've ended up here supposedly.

He's almost on me now, gray eyes glittering in the dark like those of a cat, which turns me into the mouse in this scenario. Memories from the last time we were alone assail me. His lips on mine, my hands in his hair, our chests pressing together. What happened since then? Are we an item now? Are we dating?

"Explain to me how you got yourself captured by the worst criminal gang in the state," he barks, interrupting my speculations.

Contrary to me, Killian isn't in an amorous mood. Which immediately sets me in a temper of my own. I don't know what it is about this man, but he sure can push all my buttons.

With the duct tape gagging me, I can't talk, but I can glare.

Killian stalks toward me, closing the last of the distance, and with a precise jerk of his hand, he removes three-quarters of the tape, freeing my mouth. It stings like a bitch, but the adrenaline helps to manage the pain.

"They were torturing a poor calf, they would've killed him for fun," I sputter. It appears that my dream brain, while not remembering how to drive a stick, how to line dance, or what my relationship status with Killian is, keeps up to speed with whatever else is going on in this fictional world.

"A calf?" Killian taps his foot. "You're here because you were trying to save cattle?"

"I wasn't going to let a baby animal be tortured and killed for sport."

"Yeah?" he snaps, face truly lethal now. "And what do you think those gentlemen are planning to do to you, for sport?"

"I didn't think," I say. "I just acted, and I'd do it again a million times, even knowing I'd end up here."

"Well-the-heck-aware," Killian hisses.

And I get the distinct impression that he'd be shouting at me if not for the "gentlemen" outside he just mentioned.

The outburst shocks me a little. Every other time I've seen him, he's always appeared so cold, so in control. But there's a dark fury blazing in his eyes now.

Killian sucks in a breath as if he's just as startled by his reaction. Then, shaking his head, he kneels between my thighs. My first instinct is to close my legs or open them wider—I'm not even sure which at this point. But of course, I can't do either. So I keep perfectly still as a blade flashes in his hands, and he gets to work on cutting the rope on my right ankle. "You were reckless."

"I don't care." I lift my chin. "They were playing matadors with a baby cow. I wasn't just going to turn my head and?—"

In a swift move, the duct tape is back on my mouth.

"I prefer you gagged," Killian says, the harshness in his voice a contrast to the gentle way his fingers are soothing the sensitive skin of my ankle where the rope chafed me.

The distracting touch prevents me from hauling a stream of profanities at him, even from under the gag. A tingle shoots up my leg, landing straight between my thighs.

Killian flashes me a mocking stare, as if he knows exactly what kind of power a simple graze of his fingers holds, and gets to work on freeing the other leg.

Then he's at my back, bent at a weird angle so that his hands are on mine and his lips brush my left ear.

"In another scenario," he whispers down my neck, "I wouldn't mind having you all trussed up for me, Sugar Spoon."

The moment my wrists are free, I kick the chair backward and stand up, removing the tape from my mouth once again.

Killian dodges the chair projectile and stalks toward me. "Be quiet, will you?"

I shove him. "You gagged me."

"And you got yourself almost killed, if not worse. I'd say we're even."

I massage my wrists where the ropes were just an instant ago, the motion not nearly as pleasant as when Killian was performing it on my ankles. "What's the plan now?" I ask begrudgingly.

"We get out of here, quietly." The strain he puts on the word quietly is insufferable. "The sheriff is on his way, but we can't be too careful."

"If the cops are coming, why didn't you just wait for them to rescue me?"

The glare he throws me in response is full of frustration and some other powerful emotion I can't place. But it's fierce enough to stun me into silence.

Did something else happen after we kissed yesterday? Was it yesterday for him, too, or before? What else has transpired between us in the meantime? Like always, I've missed entire chapters and I loathe it.

"Keep close behind me," Killian orders as he strides toward the only exit.

I follow him, heart beating in my chest as he opens the door a crack, overlooking a peeling farmhouse and cornfields.

Killian slips through the opening with unnatural grace for a man so tall. I trail after him, moving a lot less gracefully on my high heels. We cross the illuminated dirt patch in front of the barn, aiming for the safety of the shadows at the edge of the fields.

We've almost made it when the door to the farmhouse bangs open and someone noisily spits to the ground. Before I even have time to realize what's happening, Killian has grabbed me and pulled me behind a tree. My back flush to his front, while one of his large hands covers my mouth to stifle my surprised cry.

I have to say, I prefer this modality of gagging to duct tape tenfold. Still, because I'm an asshole, I gently nibble on one of his fingers.

Initially, he goes rigid against me. But as we listen to the man on the porch undo his fly and relieve himself on the ground, Killian shifts his stance ever so slightly. The fingers of his left hand dig into my hip and then move up to flatten on my stomach, his knuckles grazing the underside of my breast as he moves.

And then his thumb starts to draw slow, lazy circles on my belly.

Every hair on my body stands to alert. Normally, I'd whimper and struggle to wiggle free, unable to bear the tension. But the me of this world is bold and fierce, and she certainly isn't one to de-escalate situations. So I close my teeth on the flesh of his finger and suck.

Killian buries his face in my curls, clearly struggling to suppress a groan. I rejoice knowing that I'm the one responsible for making him this worked up. To have him spin out of control.

"You'd better stop this little game of yours, Sugar Spoon." The words are so soft-spoken even I strain to hear them. "Or I might decide to come out and play for real."

In response, I give him another nibble.

This time, he spins me around and cages me against the tree, taking my breath away—and not because of the impact of my back with the trunk.

He has my wrists imprisoned above my head, eyes ablaze even against the dark night.

At this moment, I don't care if we're trying to escape a den of infamous criminals. All I care about is that if he doesn't kiss me right now, I might burst up in flames.

A strong gush of wind picks up, cooling my heated skin. I revel in the sensation, at least until I hear the barn door bang in its frame behind us. Killian tenses against me. His head snaps to the side, probably to check if the man outside has heard it, too. Our only hope is that he is too drunk to notice. But luck is not on our side.

"Hey, Dirk," the man calls out in a drawl. "Did you leave the barn door unlocked?"

I don't hear the full response, but the words bitch and inside clearly carry over the wind.

"Well, I'm afraid the bitch has escaped then."

A heartbeat of silence and then we hear the cocking of a shotgun. Seconds later, chips of wood explode a mere few inches above our heads.

Killian grabs my hand and pulls me into the cornfield, uttering a single word, "Run."