(Highest Ranking #76 in Romance)
Chiara is a journalist. A good one. For the world to know that, all she needs is a scoop. Her instincts tell her that the Riders of Tyr have a few stories to offer to the public and she decides to expose them. Will h...
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Chiara
When I open my eyes, it's morning outside and I can finally look at the view out my window. It's disheartening. Green, thick, woods as far as the eye can see. I am in the middle of nowhere. Still, there must be a cellphone reception or how else would Girard stay in touch with the club? If I can get to that phone...
Pointless, I have no idea where I am. No, I have to risk it. I have to get out of these handcuffs, find my way out and make a run for it. Hopefully, there'll be a road nearby. Good luck navigating the woods with a Native American chasing you! Real Last of Mohicans stuff right here.
"God," I whisper.
When did this all go from "And the winner of the Pulitzer prize is..." to "Chiara Perinelli still missing"? I am not getting out of it alive. They may find out I really know nothing but they are not going to let me go, telling the world how they kidnapped me and kept me in a cabin in the middle of nowhere. The only reason I am alive is cause they are still digging to see what they'll find and when they'll be sure, Girard will just dig a hole in the middle of the woods or simply let the wolves eat me. You know, protect and respect nature, feed the animals.
"No!" I sit up and straighten my back.
I will not give up. If the Riders think I will just roll up and cry – which I will do in a minute but that's irrelevant – and simply let them kill me, then they have another thing coming. I scan the room once more. If I had something small and sharp, I could get out of these handcuffs easily.
I glance at the window but I am not sure it's locked. The one in the bathroom definitely was and of course I checked. I shake my head in despair and that's when I see something on the nightstand at the other side of the small bed. A nail! It's just barely loose on the side hidden by the pillows but I see it. And before I get the chance, the door opens.
Girard walks in with a plate in his hand. His long, thick hair fall on his face and he runs his fingers through it to throw it behind his back. I follow that gesture mesmerized and it is as if it happens in slow motion. I was just thinking of something but what was it?
Chiara! I scream in my head to stop from actually drooling over a man that will eventually kill me. But it would be so much easier if Girard was any less impressive than he is. I was never big on men with long hair not even in my teens. But this is different.
This is not some lame attempt to look cool, not a hipster going after the sexy man-bun look. This is part of who he is, a spiritual connection to the world and to the traditions of his people. All in all, he looks perfect. Chiara, for the love of sanity!
"Girard," I try.
All I get from him is an angry look as he throws the plate on the bed. He has yet to speak one single word to me. I am usually good at having people talk to me, part of the charm of being a reporter. But this one...He is a tough nut to crack. Not that if I got him to talk to me would do me any good. Only if he has a thin, shrill, feminine voice that can tone down all that masculine power that comes off him in suffocating waves.
I don't even look at the plate, just keep my eyes in his. He blinks slowly, calmly and as he does, his long, eyelashes kiss his skin, in a move that has me inhale deeply. I must be seriously going insane right now cause I can't be possibly looking at my captor like that and claim that my sanity is whole. But then he dispatches his eyes and scans the area. Shit, I panic. He mustn't see the nail.
"Water, please," I ask and he swings back to me.
His eyes now scan me and he goes over my body. I suddenly realize that I am still wearing that tiny, lame excuse of a dress from yesterday. God, was it only yesterday? I look up to him to see the appreciation in his eyes as he takes my body in and I shiver. Please don't, I am suddenly aware that he can force himself on me if he wished.
And yet his look it's not the one like Vince or Tor showed me. There is some male admiration but what prevails is discomfort. I am a chore for him, a responsibility he didn't want. And instead of relief that he doesn't make me scared to be raped on top of dead, I frown.
Without a word, Girard walks out and comes back minutes after with a bottle of water and drawstring shorts in his hand. He hands me the bottle and I drink eagerly. Then he throws me the shorts. Well, it may have been shorts for him, for me are huge pants. With my one free hand, I put them on over the dress and pull the strings to tighten them around my waist.
"You bring me to the unpleasant position to say thank you but I do have manners," I dare look up to him. "Who knew savage outlaws that drag innocent women up into the wilderness had a bit of decency?"
He frowns seriously but all he manages to do is look sexier.That mouth of mine again. He is leaning against the door, his massive arms twined over his chest and his heavy look on me. When our eyes meet, I see he swallows hard even if his face keeps the same, impassionate mask. He just beckons to the plate and I follow his look. There are eggs and bacon on the paper plate and a plastic fork. I take them both and I eat under his scrutinizing look.
When I am done, he picks up the plate, throws one last glance at the room and then he closes the door behind him. When I hear his footsteps further away, I drop on the pillow next to me and go to work. I need that nail, it's my only hope. So, I work on freeing that from the wood. This may be my last chance to get out of this alive.
A short chapter, I know. But I do hope that the ones to come will be more satisfying.
What do you think of those two so far? Not exactly the perfect grounds for a romance, right?
