Page 12

“I know.”

“You looked like you were going to shoot her.”

“Considered it.”

My laugh escapes again. Something changes in his face. It isn’t a smile. Samuel probably needs a permit from the state to smile. But the hard line of his mouth softens. For an instant, he looks like the man I remember.

Then he looks away.

“There’s one bed,” he says.

“Then enjoy the couch.”

“Oh, I will.” He retorts.

The bedroom is at the end of the hallway. A king-size bed fills most of it, covered in a dark gray quilt. A stone fireplace stands opposite the footboard, and rain streaks the window overlooking the forest.

Samuel gives me a clean T-shirt and a pair of flannel pants. I change in the bathroom, refusing to acknowledge how his shirt falls almost to my knees or how it smells like cedar and him.

When I return, Samuel is sitting on the edge of the bed. There’s a coil of rope beside him.

I stop in the doorway. “No.”

His shoulders tense.

“Absolutely not.”

“You’ll run.”

“You’re damn right I’ll run.”

“Men are outside.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I know how they think.”

“And I know how kidnappers think. Apparently.”

His eyes close for a moment.

“Sophie.”

“I’ve already told you…Bodyguards aren’t supposed to be the bad guys!”

“I’m trying to keep you alive.”

“You’re tying me to a bed!”

His jaw hardens. “One wrist only.”

“How considerate.”

He picks up the rope. I back toward the door, but he crosses the room before I take two steps. His hands close around my waist, lifting me again. I pound his shoulders.

“I hate you.” The words come out on a broken breath.

Samuel stops. His eyes meet mine. For the first time tonight, I see something in him crack.