Page 78 of Modern Romance September 2026 Books 5-8

“Stand down,” he says, coming into the room, and closing the door behind him, a tray balanced on one hand. “I’m not here to fight with you.”

“What is it?”

“Food.”

“Yes. But what is it? I’m trying to decide if I’m grateful to you or not.”

“I think you will find the steak to be of the highest quality. And the vegetables to be well seasoned.”

He sets the tray down at the foot of the bed, and I stare at it, trying to ignore my growling stomach. It must be lunchtime.

At least, wherever we are.

“So, you have men, do you? A troupe of them? Are you like an all-male revue, or is it something a little more sinister?” I pause for a moment and pretend to think. “I confess I find few things more sinister than a male stripper.”

“Really?” The question is dry, and not at all genuine, but I don’t care.

“Yes. The power balance is still woefully in their favor. It becomes distasteful.”

“I will have to take your word for that.”

He stands there, and I get a good look at him in the full light of day for the very first time. I’m not being held up against him, not blind with fear and fury.

He’s huge.

I knew that immediately. He’s also so stunningly beautiful. It seems unreal. So beautiful that even in the throes of my kidnapping I noticed that beauty.

I’m struck hard again by it now.

His black hair falls artfully into his face, his dark eyes wide and fringed with thick lashes. So perfect, you would almost call him beautiful, except for the sharp lines of his brows, the brutal precision of his jawline and the cruel curve of his lips.

The tattoos that color his skin mark him as a man who isn’t afraid to stand out. To draw attention. And I find that unsettling, because a man of his past should want to blend in. To avoid detection. That he’s given himself distinctive marks and characteristics is almost like a dare. To his enemies, to the law. A brazen quality that I find quite unsettling. And fascinating.

The tattoos are all black ink, dark lines, the art so tightly woven within itself that I have a difficult time discerning what the images are.

You would have to get close to him to really examine them.

The very idea makes my heart catch in my throat. And I don’t like the sensation. I’m completely unfamiliar with looking at men and experiencing attraction. Generally speaking I feel fear and suspicion. I can appreciate pictures of handsome men. I can appreciate handsome men in movies. In real life, they have always felt like the kind of liability that I couldn’t take on. And I always lead with my more suspicious instincts. I find it to be one of my better qualities.

“Seriously, though. What do you have men for?” I ask.

“Categorically none of your business,” he responds.

“I’m carrying your baby. I don’t have the right to know anything about you?”

“In my life, too much information often means a person becomes a target.”

“I’m already a target.”

“So you are. Enjoy your meal.”

“Wait,” I say, and I’m humiliated by the pleading note in my voice. Being trapped in here is getting to me.

Then, I gather myself.

Maybe I can appeal to his softer nature. If it’s possible that one exists. “I don’t even know where we are.”

“Near Borneo.”