Better yet, what on earth are we doing here?
“I know what you’re thinking.” He sidles up next to me and throws his arm over my shoulder as if he were a top-shot real estate agent. “Wow, Mickey, this is amazing! I can’t believe how romantic and perfect you are.” Mimicking my voice, he places a hand over his heart. “Thank you for driving me three hours to the middle of nowhere and being so perfect.”
I glare at him and his stupidly smug face. It only seems to encourage him.
He cups my cheek and says, “Well, my sweet Bella, to that, I say you are most welcome. Anything for you.”
“Right. So are you going to kill me?” I half mutter out of unease, and half grumble out of impatience.
He pinches my cheek as I scowl at him, slapping his hand away. “Vicious princess.” Chuckling while entwining our fingers, he pulls me along behind him. “But no, not yet.”
“That doesn’t bring me any comfort.” I glower.
With a wink, he grabs a bag from inside his bike, and starts dragging me behind the house to an even freakier-looking shed. If he isn’t killing me, is he killing someone else?
God, what if he has hostages in there?
“Don’t worry, I’ll protect you,” Mickey croons, and I hit his chest lightly. The act seems playful from the outside, but my rapidly increasing heart rate is a whole other story.
“What are we doing here, Roman?” I tense, waiting for another non-answer.
He’s good at those.
“Don’t call me that.” His gaze darkens, and I almost regret saying anything. But I have a right to know what we’re doing at an abandoned house, walking toward a creepy shed when the sun is just about to set. He can get over being called something other than Mickey. “Be patient.”
Sensing my agitation, he pauses to face me. Just when I think he’s going to soothe my worries and give me the answers I so desperately want at this moment, he makes my anxieties worse. I'm not sure what I expect when he pulls something out of his pocket, but it wasn’t a black cloth that he proceeds to tie around my head to cover my eyes.
The world around me plunges into darkness, and my adrenaline kicks up a notch, making me hyper-aware of every thread of fabric touching my skin.
“Leave it,” he warns as my hands move toward my face.
“What the hell, Mickey! I can’t see anything.” He’s meant to be terrorizing everyone but me.
“That’s exactly the point.”
I growl under my breath, but bite back a smile. This time, when I touch the cloth, a steel grip clamps around my wrist, and I’m hauled toward his hard chest.
I can’t see a thing with the blindfold, but all my other senses are heightened. I can feel every one of his breaths that fans my face, the heavy beats of his heart beneath my hands, and the chill of the night air licking my neck.
Goosebumps erupt over my skin, and I shiver when the lightest touch of his lips brushes against my ear. “Are you going to be a good girl and walk with your hands at your sides, or will I need to carry you?” His voice is filled with danger, but with an edge like he’s hoping for the latter so that I can be his own rag doll for the rest of the night.
“Tell me where we’re going first.”
He pulls back as his chest beneath my hands vibrates with his silent laugh. “The shed. Obviously. Stop being difficult.”
“I’m being difficult?” I all but screech. “You took me to—excuse my language—the middle of butt-fuck nowhere, and then you blindfold me and drag me to some shady barn thing?”
He nudges my side. “Have I ever done you wrong?”
I throw my arms up. “Yes. Many times.”
“Like when?” The way he says it is like I’ve accused him of committing treason.
And they say women are dramatic.
“Let’s see. How about that time you wanted to explore a lake, and it turned out to be a landmine?” I put my hands on my hips.
“It was decommissioned,” he counters.
I huff. “Or when you took me to see ‘some cool art,’ and then we had to run from the cops because you were caught tagging?”
“Wasn’t a lie. The art was cool.” I can just imagine him cocking his chin up with a prickly grin.
“What about when you fed me undercooked chicken, and I was out with food poisoning for a week?” I say pointedly.
He’s silent for one beat, then two. “But did you die?”
I gape at him. “I was so dehydrated from throwing up, I thought I saw God.”
“No, you saw me. And I’ve apologized.” His voice drops a level, and I can feel the guilt seeping out of him.
I bite the inside of my cheek, because it was a low blow. He stayed up with me the whole time, tying my hair back as I threw up my guts, brushing my teeth when I didn’t have the energy to, and then he carried me back to bed.
“Now you’re a master chef who’s taken me hostage,” I say with a joking edge.
The week after that, he began using all these cooking terminologies like sautéing and braising. Mickey refuses to admit it, but I have a hunch he started watching cooking videos. There’s no way he went from undercooking boiled chicken to making homemade empanadas without the internet.
A pause lingers between us. “Yet you haven’t attempted to take off the blindfold again.” I launch into defense mode and twist my arms out of his grip, just like he taught me. “Cut it out. That wasn’t an invitation,” he snaps, then lowers his voice and says, “But well done. Good technique.”
My skin heats from the praise. Please, Isabella, contain yourself.
“Walk or carry?”
My breath catches in my throat. “Tell me what—"
“One.”
“Mickey, seriously, I—"
“Two.”
“Why won’t you tell—" My words end with a shriek when strong arms move behind my knees and sweep me off my feet. As it always does when it comes to Mickey, my body betrays me, and without thought, I wrap my hands behind his neck. “No!”
He chuckles. “Too late. You’re at my mercy now.”
I dissolve into his hold. Even though layers are separating us, we may as well be skin-to-skin. I’m on fire, and the only person who can put me out is him, even though he’s what ignited me. But this is a dangerous game. Something so simple shouldn’t unwind me so much.
“Put me down right now, Roman Riviera.”
I swear I hear him growl. “Do you want to find out if I have duct tape, too?”
My mouth clamps shut.
No… he wouldn’t, would he? Surely not…
“Good girl,” he muses.
I’m about to say something else. Maybe something snarky, but I really don’t want to find out if a roll of duct tape is hidden inside his leather jacket.
That kind of kidnapping scenario would be a little too much for me.
Just a little.
Okay, a lot.