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My chest burned, my legs ached, and my heart pounded from my chest up to my head. But I pushed. I cleared the van and was into the field when arms wrapped around my waist. My legs kept moving, first flying outward and then kicking around, hoping to connect with a tender part of Psycho.
The force took us both down to the cold ground, with him landing on me hard enough to knock the wind out of me.
“Fuckin’ hell, princess,” he cursed, rolling us until I was on my back and he was on me, though he didn’t give me his weight.
“Let me go!” I screamed.
“Listen—”
“Get off.” I tried pushing and, when that got me nowhere, hitting. His hands encircled my wrists, pinning them down, and I leaned up to screech in his face.
“Listen to me. I’m tryin’ to protect you!”
“By kidnapping and holding me hostage?” Tears of anger, frustration, and fear burned in my eyes before sliding down my temples. “I won’t tell anyone what happened, I promise. I’ll even get back into the van. Just take me home.” My voice broke as I whispered, “Please, I just wanna go home.”
He studied me for a moment, and I thought he might give in, but he shook his head. “Your place has been hit, Ophelia. It’s not safe.”
“What does that mean—” I started, my words cutting off when I realized he’d called me Ophelia. “How do you know my name?”
“Your license.”
My purse.
Dejection formed a black pit in my chest, and I closed my eyes against the onslaught of worthless tears.
His rough hands skimmed softly—almost tenderly—down my forearms. When they reached a painful spot, my eyes snapped open, and I hissed in pain.
He muttered a harsh curse, his expression tight with anger that, crazily, didn’t seem directed at me—not if his soft touch and regret-filled eyes were any indication.
Neither of us spoke as he stood and lifted me.
I didn’t bother to argue as he carried me back to the old church.
I didn’t look around.
I didn’t even think.
My mind shut down at the bleakness of my reality.
Psycho set me on a counter and reached up to open a cupboard over my head. He pulled down a large plastic case and opened it to reveal a surprisingly well-stocked first-aid kit.
He got to work on my scraped elbows, first with antibacterial towelettes and then large bandages. Once they were covered, he lowered me back to the floor and turned me around. I snapped out of my daze when he began lifting my shirt, but he just cleaned a small raw spot on my side with the antibacterial wipe, increasing the burn.
Remaining silent, he grabbed my hand and pulled me. I started to yank it back, but since the alternative was likely him picking me up, I went with the lesser of the two evils.
With detached indifference, I scanned the room as we moved, taking in everything as though I were viewing the set of a TV show.
The counter I’d been on was located in a massive, industrial-sized kitchen of intricate heavy wood and contradictorily modern appliances. A familiar smell filled the air, though I couldn’t place it. He shoved us through a swinging door with all his badass grace, leading us into a big room.
My view was blocked by his broad back, but that didn’t stop me from searching for an exit. A weakness.
A weapon.
My original guess of the building being an old church had been correct. The high stained-glass windows were dull and coated from age, only letting in dim sunlight, but it gave the room a mystical quality. The interior wasn’t dilapidated like the exterior. From what I could see to the side, there was still the beautiful architecture of a church, but the layout and décor had been updated to casual and masculine.
Looking to the other side, I belatedly noticed a huge rectangular table.
And the men sitting at it.
