Their Mountain Captive by Kayla Wren

11

Roxy

Ihiss between my teeth, wincing as the needle digs into Dante’s arm. Alec stitches slowly, his face stoic and his stitches neat, but he hates this. His shoulders are taut, the lines of his body rigid. The two of them sit on the edge of the double bed, Alec’s expression wooden and Dante’s smoothed blank.

He’s doing the whole macho, I-don’t-feel-pain thing. Men.

“Yowza.” I lean closer, balancing on one leg. My ankle wobbles, and I grab Dante’s shoulder.

“Do you mind?” he grinds out, and I don’t know what he means—my hand or the way I’m watching, hissing and grimacing at every stitch. “I’m trying to ignore this. You’re not helping.”

“How about another distraction?” I blurt before I can think better of it.

It was strategic earlier. To keep Angelo’s attention; I know that. It was pretty fun, though. In a verging-on-hysterics kind of way.

A muscle ticks in Alec’s jaw. He draws the needle out again, stern and silent, and Dante turns to me, eyes glittering. “Whatever do you mean?”

I must be half out my mind on adrenaline still, because I’ve got that rushing feeling. That giddy, top-of-the-rollercoaster sensation, where my stomach swoops but I don’t want to stop, not for anything. It’s the same feeling I get when I step off a plane in a new country. When I pack up my whole life and uproot myself on a whim.

They held me captive, yes. And I haven’t forgiven them for that, but I’m also not scared of them anymore. They’re pussycats.

“Like earlier.” My hand fists Dante’s shirt on his shoulder, straining it over the hard bulge of his muscle. He watches me, unblinking. “On the cabin deck.” I swallow. “You liked it. I know you did.”

His voice is velvet. “Remind me, Roxy.”

I slide onto his lap with an oof.

The needle pauses on his other arm. Alec is rigid, turned to stone, but then he starts up again. Prod, push, drag. He stares at his line of stitches so intently, they should burst into flame.

Oh dear. Dante’s not the only one with big feelings.

“This is not a good distraction.” Dante raises an eyebrow, jerking me back to the present. I shuffle closer, winding my arms around his neck.

“You don’t smell like the mountains.”

His mouth quirks. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“Alec does.”

His smirk fades. “Yes. He does.”

“How disturbing,” Alec murmurs. Prod, push, drag. “You’ve both been sniffing me.”

“Big, greedy lungfuls,” I assure him. Dante’s eyes narrow. It’s the only warning I get before he surges forward, trapping my bottom lip between his teeth.

“Hey!” Alec snatches up a cloth, dabbing at a fresh red line on Dante’s arm. And I’m trapped, held captive all over again, sharp teeth digging into my lip, my hands tugging uselessly at his hair.

Heat twists low in my belly.

“Ge’ off.”

Dante smiles, the motion filling my vision. My heart is pounding so hard, I feel dizzy. His tongue darts out, soothing his bite as quick as it came, and then he’s sitting back. “Then behave.”

“Or what? Will you threaten to shoot me again?”

Alec pauses. The look he sends Dante is murderous. It drips disdain. “When did you threaten to shoot her?”

Dante has the grace to look guilty.

“When he took me to pee,” I supply, still giddy on this roller coaster. None of this feels real.

The needle stabs in harder this time. Prod, push, drag. Dante’s jaw flexes, but he doesn’t make a squeak. And even though it’s ridiculous, I feel bad that I snitched on him. At the time, sure, it scared the crap out of me. But today, after the last few hours, the idea that Dante would actually hurt me feels so clearly bullshit. Even now, his strong hands are bracketing my thighs, holding me gently in place on his lap.

I haven’t forgotten how he got that bullet wound: carrying me to the truck.

“Pussycat,” I murmur, and Dante’s expression is scathing. But he doesn’t stop me when I lean in.

His lips are soft. Pillowy. His breath mists warm over my cheeks, his grip tightening on my thighs. The prod and drag of the needle fades away, all sounds lost except the steady draw of Dante’s breath and the silky slide of his palms against my legs.

The heat builds in my core. Grows slick and pulsing, and I can’t help the whimper that escapes my throat as we grip and sway together. Dante growls, low and rumbling, then his hands leave my thighs to cup my face, to tilt my head, to let his tongue thrust into my mouth.

Dante kisses like a mobster. He takes what he’s owed.

It sends ripples down my spine.

And what the hell am I doing? Have I lost my last thread of sense? Reality rushes back in, cold and clammy, and I lurch backward off Dante’s lap, cursing loudly as I step on my bad ankle. He stares at me, eyes hard and pupils blown wide.

“Roxy—” Alec reaches for me, tries to steady my elbow, but I hop out of his reach, too.

This is fucked. It’s all so messed up.

“I need a shower.” I was just giving an excuse, but now that I say it, it’s true. I desperately need scalding water and scented steam. I need to wash the blood and sweat and dirt off me. I need to think straight, for one freaking minute. “Don’t come in.”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” Dante snarls, but I ignore him. Alec, too. And the room spins a little as I limp across the stained carpet.

The bathroom door wedges shut when I shove it with my shoulder. My ragged breaths bounce off the tiles. And I sink down onto the toilet and bury my face in my hands.

* * *

What kind of a person kisses her captive? Not under duress; not as some kind of escape plan. Because she wants to. Because she doesn’t like knowing he’s in pain, and because she feels like she’ll explode if she doesn’t.

I’ll tell you what kind of person: a basket case.

“Therapy,” I grumble to myself, running a bar of soap up my arm. “Freaking years of therapy.”

The motel bathroom is about as glorious as the rest of the accommodation. The sink is cracked and listing to one side; the mirror is clouded with age and flecked with god-knows-what. The shower is a rusted metal head over a beige bathtub that I’m pretty sure used to be white.

Doesn’t matter. The water’s hot and it keeps coming. That’s all I’m asking for right now. And besides—I’d been hiking for days already before I fell off that ledge. I stink worse than the motel.

I’ve been in plenty of dive hotels over the last few years. Running a travel blog on a budget, you’ll see some stuff. Cockroaches. Bare wires. Snakes under the bed. My tolerance for crappy accommodation is high.

An ex-mafia prince and a dingy bathtub? Not such a big deal.

It’s weird. Being in that bedroom with the curtains drawn, it was like a pocket outside of time. But here, with daylight filtering through the frosted glass window, I remember it’s early afternoon. That most people are outside, enjoying the sunshine.

I could probably join them. What are the chances that Angelo guy would care? That he’d even remember what I look like? I could limp out there, clean under my dirty, bloody clothes, and blend with the crowd. Find a local cop, or hell—just pretend this fever dream never happened and finish my freaking vacation.

I’m not going to do it. Leave them just yet.

I won’t think about why.

“Kidnapping assholes,” I remind myself sternly. “They’re kidnapping assholes.”

Assholes with big, bleeding hearts.

Guilt pinches in my chest, and I shampoo my hair, scrubbing a bit harder than necessary. I shouldn’t have done that. Played them off each other that way. Shouldn’t have kissed Dante like I needed the air in his lungs, all while Alec sat there, his jaw clenched tight enough to shatter.

I owe them nothing. And yet my stomach curdles at the thought of his blank, distant eyes.

The shower head sputters, spraying suddenly icy cold, and I slap off the water before it freezes my skin. It’s an ordeal, hopping around and trying to dry myself with the threadbare motel towel, but I don’t call for help. Gotta keep some dignity. And when I finally push back out into the bedroom, my crusty clothes pinched in one hand and my towel tucked tight under my arm pits, there’s a men’s flannel robe laid out on the single bed.

“Alec got it at the front desk,” Dante says, sounding bored. He’s propped against the double bed headboard, his legs crossed at the ankle, and he’s going for casual but he’s holding his arm too stiffly. It’s hurting him, then. “He’s gone out for supplies.”

“Like clothes?” I limp to the bed, tossing my shorts and sweatshirt onto the carpet. My towel slips as I pull the robe up and over my arms, but Dante doesn’t look. He stares at his thumbnail, like it’s the most fascinating thing in the world.

“Maybe.” He shrugs. “Whatever he thinks we need.”

It must be nice to have that kind of trust in someone. To surrender completely to their judgment. I’ve been on my own now for so long, my parents nothing more than a yearly holiday card, that it seems exotic. An alien culture.

“Well, I need clothes.”

“Demanding, aren’t you?”

“Is it safe out there?” I talk over him. “For Alec. Will he be okay?”

Dante rolls his eyes, still staring at his fingernails. “I don’t know, Roxy. Let me consult my crystal ball.”

I huff. “You’re an ass.”

He looks at me at last, raising his eyes while his head is still bent. “Yes. I am.”

The lifted arm is an invitation. A peace offering, of sorts. I’ve got my own bed, there’s even a rickety chair in one corner, but I’m a sucker because I go to him. Limp across the carpet and crawl up onto the bed, wincing at the movement in my ankle.

“Yes.” Dante urges me up to the headboard. Arranges me against his side, his good arm draped over my shoulders. “Come up here, bella. Welcome to the sick bay.”

“How’s your arm?”

“Bloody. Stitched up. Incredibly manly.”

I snort. “I’ll say.”

We don’t talk about the kiss. Nor the man hunting us, or the hard flints of hurt in Alec’s eyes when I left for the shower. We sigh and lie draped over each other, exhaustion sinking deep into our bones.

“This bed is excruciating,” Dante murmurs after a while, half asleep. “I wouldn’t make a dog sleep on it.”

“Good thing you’re not a dog.”

His even breathing is the only reply. And a little while later: “I need to shower.”

“I used up all the hot water.”

Dante sighs, a great, long-suffering gust of air that flutters my hair against my cheek. “Roxy. You vengeful little harpy. Are we even yet?”

“For holding me captive?” He grunts. I hide a smile. “Not quite.”

Maybe it’s messed up. Maybe it’s some Stockholm Syndrome nonsense, but the tragic fact is that I haven’t felt this held for as long as I can remember. Even when they had me tied up, they took care of me. And now, when they’ve seen the error of their kidnapping ways, when they’re going all-out to protect me…

It’s powerful. A heady rush.

“Do you think I need therapy?”

The laugh rumbles from deep in Dante’s chest. I want to rest my cheek on his ribcage and feel it reverberate.

“Everyone needs therapy. Even boring people who don’t get kidnapped.”

“Alec doesn’t need therapy.”

Dante snorts. “He needs it more than anyone.”

I lie there for a minute and think about that. Pull the statement apart and look at it from all angles. And there’s something there, something he’s telling me, but whatever Dante’s complaints, this bed is pretty damn comfy. Too comfy to think straight. My eyelids grow heavy, my breathing slows, and I roll slightly, tucking tighter into Dante’s side.

“Sleep, bella,” he murmurs into my hair. His fingers play through the strands.

And I do.