Kidnapped

Chapter 22 - Resolve

An ache simmers deep in the pit of my stomach as I hold him against me, a confusing blend of comfort and conflict. Guilt gnaws at my insides, an insistent reminder of how drastically everything has changed. A week ago, I was a virgin, filled with the excitement of graduating high school, my future a bright, uncharted horizon. Now, I stand here, in a creaking, dimly lit farmhouse, finding solace in Vince—the brother of the man who kidnapped me and stole my innocence.

The tightness in my chest deepens, anxiety curling like a wrench around my ribs. Vince must feel the shift; his hands on my hips tighten instinctively, steadying me before he moves me back, allowing space to breathe. His dark eyes lift to mine, and for a moment, there’s a rawness there, something that goes beyond unspoken desire—an unvoiced understanding, as if he's trapped in the same storm.

I manage a weak smile, my gaze dropping to the warped floorboards beneath us. “Thank you for telling me about your scar,” I say, my voice trembling, betraying the swirl of emotions inside.

A fleeting smile touches his lips, gone as quickly as it appears. He nods, his hands falling to his sides, fingers flexing in hesitation. “Thank you for caring,” he replies softly.

My eyes wander around the room, absorbing the details—the cobwebs that shiver in the corners, the groaning floorboards, the brittle, yellowed wallpaper that peels off the walls.

“You know,” I say, a tentative smile forming, “you really should consider sprucing this place up a bit.”

He glances around, amusement sparking in his eyes. “Oh? You don’t think it has a certain… rustic charm?”

A giggle escapes me, light and unexpected. “I’m not sure ‘charm’ is the word I’d use.”

A mischievous smirk spreads across his face, the air shifting to something playful, the tension loosening its hold. “Oh? And what word would you choose, then?” he asks, leaning forward with mock seriousness.

I let the silence stretch for a moment, savoring the anticipation. “Dumpster fire?” I say, lifting an eyebrow, a grin daring to break free.

His mock offense is immediate, brows lifting as he narrows his eyes at me. “How dare you…” In a flash, he reaches for me, and I squeal as he pulls me onto the bed.

“No! It’s filthy!” I protest between fits of laughter, squirming in his hold.

“Lay on it! Lay on my filthy mattress!” His laughter is deep, vibrating through me as he pins me down. The sound mingles with the rain drumming against the window, the room alive with warmth and a fleeting sense of something close to normal.

As the laughter fades, the room holds a collective breath, the space between us tightening until it’s almost tangible. The rustle of fabric and the rapid beat of my heart are the only sounds breaking the quiet. His body presses against mine, a warm, firm presence that sends a shiver through me. Heat pools low in my stomach, awareness sharpening as the hardness beneath his boxers brushes my thigh. My breath stutters, eyes widening as a flush spreads across my skin. “Hey now,” I murmur, the teasing words trembling on my lips, my gaze lifting to meet his.

He raises one hand, a gesture of playful surrender, though the smirk tugging at his mouth is anything but innocent. “Ignore him,” he says, voice low and rough, the humor barely masking the tension sparking between us. “He’s very sensitive to harsh critiques.”

The soft laugh that escapes me is unsteady, tinged with anticipation. I shift beneath him, the movement drawing a subtle groan from his chest, and the lightness in his eyes darkens, pupils dilating as if I’ve lit something smoldering inside him. His expression shifts, the playful veneer giving way to something deeper, more urgent. He studies me like he’s memorizing every detail—the way my lips part, the rapid rise and fall of my chest, the way my body reacts to him without a word.