Furious

Chapter Two

I huffed in irritation.

"Waiting for a trick or something? Better get used to disappointment." I crossed my arms against the power of his grin, so strong, so right on his face, and pinched the underside of my arm every time I wanted to smile back.

I needed a plan, the objective being to get home in one piece. Execution of Plan A was still debatable.

But hey, in dreams anything is possible, right?

The kitchen had only a single doorway, no door, behind me. No windows, a disconcerting common theme. A table with four chairs nestled into a corner, an empty flower vase positioned in the corner. On his side of the breakfast bar was a mystery but behind him was a sink and a counter covered with spice racks, jars of utensils, a toaster, and a block of knives next to the stove.

Knives that might come in handy.

I was formulating a plan to slip a knife from its home on the counter when the word vomit kicked in. My old friend and near-constant companion, the word vomit. "Are you going to ignore me all night? Because I'm not that kind of girl, I don't get off when a boy ignores me. And, honestly, have you ever kidnapped anyone before? I don't think this is quite right. I sort of imagined a lot of evil laughing and monologues."

Yes, that's right, Autumn; insult the man who can rip open the earth at whim. Smart move.

Countless teachers and friends liked to remind me that my inability to keep my mouth shut would be my undoing. Sarah, who has possessed the patience of a saint for the past twelve years, did not let a day go by without informing me just how annoying I could be. So annoying she could die, in fact. Unfortunately my brain and my mouth didn't communicate well when stressed—or at all—and while the former was calculating the logistics of knife-play, the latter never stopped running.

Really, it was a miracle I'd been able to keep it quiet for this long.

"Is this a wrong-place-wrong-time sort of deal? Because you can trade me in for a better model, I won't be offended." But then I remembered what he'd said on the street and I sat up a little straighter, the wariness that should never have left my body evidently present once again. "No, you knew my name. So you were looking for me."

Color me suspicious. My guard would stay in the proverbial "up" position.

He said, You belong to me. Like a prize. Like the baby in the Rumpelstiltskin story, he just came to collect a few years too late. I would have to guess his name to defeat him and all my guesses were used up.

With every passing moment the world around me seemed less and less like dreamland. I took six impulsive steps fueled by fear; my hand reached out for the nearest handle protruding from the knife block.

I ripped the knife from the wood block and whipped around to face him, blade pointed at his back.

"Put that down, you'll only end up hurting yourself." He sounded bored with me, little laughter left in his voice. Mysterio didn't look up from the bowls and plates on the kitchen island, didn't pause in his task. A normal person would fend off the threat but he made no move to protect the vulnerable expanse of his back. Perhaps we both knew I wasn't brave enough to use the knife I clutched so tightly.

"This is ridiculous. I just want to go home. I don't really care about getting answers anymore. Just open up the ceiling and spit me back out onto the street." Thankfully when my voice shook this time I knew it was in anger rather than fear. I didn't belong to anyone, especially not him. "This is not a date. I'm not staying here, Mysterio."

"'I'm just someone who likes cooking and for whom sharing food is a form of expression'. You would understand if I had found you sooner."

I wish he'd never found me at all. "You brought me here so you could express yourself?" Incredulity poured out of my mouth.