Page 7 of Protecting Paige

As I focus on the red-faced man pacing in front of me, he stops mid-stride and steps towards me.

My heart flies to my throat. It hammers in frantic drumbeats, echoing in my head.

I jerk away from him, but there’s nowhere to go. Not tied to a chair, like I am, with my wrists and ankles bound tightly enough to rub my skin raw. The chair rocks a little, and I’m seized by a momentary vision of falling backwards and cracking my head open on the unforgiving basement floor.

As I try to keep the chair balanced, the man reaches out and steadies it. Which is good, I guess, except now he’s even closer to me. Close enough for me to see the red veins in his eyes and the flecks of dried toothpaste on his chin. Close enough to catch a whiff of an unpleasant blend of body odor and cheap cologne.

“Why aren’t you fixing it?” he snaps. His eyes narrow and his brows furrow into a thick, unruly V. “You’re supposed to fix things!”

I shake my head in an instinctive denial before I can stop myself. It’s not a denial of his demand, exactly, but of the whole, horrible thing.

“What?”His lips bare back in a snarl. “This isyourfault. And you’regoing to fix it.”

In hindsight, even a silent no probably wasn’t the best idea. Especially considering the circumstances—me tied up and held hostage in my basement by an obviously unbalanced man with a gun.

Honestly, I’m amazed I’m not freaking out more.

Somehow, I’ve managed to keep from dissolving into hysterical sobs or suffering a complete mental breakdown. Which is good, because if I start crying my nose will get all stuffed up and with a scarf shoved in my mouth, I could end up suffocating myself. And a mental breakdown certainly won’t help me figure out a way out of this thing.

Maybe thoughts of Cillian have kept me sane.

He wouldn’t lose it if he found himself in a situation like this. Not former Special Forces soldier Cillian, who spent a third of his life facing enemies far more frightening than this. He’d be calm. Focused. He’d probably already have three different ideas about how to escape.

I wish Cillian were here right now.

I wish I’d been braver and asked him out on a date.

I wish I’d actually met him. Hugged him. Told him in person how much our phone calls mean to me.

But now…

I may never have the chance.

Threatening tears sting my eyes. I blink quickly, trying to keep them at bay.

My body shudders. Cold sweat prickles along my back. My heart feels like it’s about to burst from my chest.

“What do you have to say for yourself?” the man asks. He rocks back on his heels and crosses his arms across his chest. “Are you going to help?”

He looks at me expectantly, as if I’m supposed to answer. Which would be a neat trick, considering I have a large piece of fabric jammed in my mouth; one that I haven’t been able to dislodge no matter how hard I’ve tried.

If I could talk, maybe I could get somewhere with him. Figure out who he is. Find out why he broke into my house and what he wants me to fix.

Widening my eyes at him, I mumble around the fabric in an unintelligible plea.

Confusion washes across his face.

Crap.

How the heck am I supposed to help him if I can’t even talk?

Darn those tears again. They’re right there, moments from escaping.

“What?” he demands. “So, youaregoing to help?”

I nod my head frantically. Then I turn my head and gesture at the wadded-up fabric with my shoulder.

As he stares at me, frustration builds.