Page 24 of Captive of Outlaws

I open my mouth to correct him, then think better of it. These guys don’t need to know I don’t have a license, let alone that I have seizures. I’m not about to reveal even the smallest weakness to them—just in case.

“Yep,” I say, idly brushing my fingertips against the leaves of a potted plant as we pass. “Hey, speaking of LJ...”

Tuck stops in his tracks and looks at me quizzically. I feel a bit stupid even for asking, but then again, that hasn’t stopped me doing anything yet.

“What’s his deal?” My voice quivers more than I’d like when I ask it. I clear my throat. “He...seemed pretty pissed when he heard I was staying here.”

Tuck’s expression softens. “Oh, that. Yeah, don’t...don’tworry about it.” He scratches the back of his head. “LJ is...complicated. We all are,” he adds. “But his complications have complications, if you know what I mean.”

Same here, I think. “Yeah, I can imagine.” I swallow. “Okay. As long as he’s not...I don’t know, mad at me.”

Tuck laughs. “Mad at you? You aren’t the one who’s done anything wrong, Maren. He just needs...” Tuck looks like he’s about to blurt something out, then stops. “He just needs time to adjust, I think.”

We stop in front of a tall white door.

“Ready to see your room?” Tuck asks.

“I...sure.” I study the door. “What makes it mine?”

“Well, up until now, it’s just been a...guest room, I guess?” Tuck tilts his head. “Not that we really get guests.” He shrugs. “A spare bedroom, maybe. One of several. But this one is definitely the best.”

He throws open the door, and I stop myself from gasping.

For one thing, it’s huge—more of a suite than an individual bedroom. Elegant white-paneled walls soar up to ceilings that have got to be twelve feet high. Sunlight streams through the expansive windows, casting a golden glow upon the rich mahogany furniture and plush furnishings, while a slightly open French door lets in a breeze and the faint scent of pine and fresh air.

The centerpiece of the room is the grand four-poster bed, draped in layers of sumptuous silk and velvet. Its intricately carved headboard rises majestically, more a work of art than something you can imagine passing out under. On either side of the bed, ornate bedside tables hold delicate porcelain lamps, their warm light casting a soft glow across the room. A polished walnut dresser stands against one wall, adornedwith intricately framed mirrors and sparkling crystal perfume bottles.

In the corner, a cozy reading nook has been set up with a cushy pale peach armchair and a stack of leather-bound books. Beside it, a gilded full-length mirror stands winking in the light.

“Holy...” I’m frozen in place, unable to cross the threshold.

“Well?” Tuck says. “Come on in. It’s not just here for you to stare at.”

“I...” I glance down at my grease-stained boots, and the prim white carpet just inside. “I don’t want to mess it up,” I explain lamely.

Tuck’s expression softens—a sweet, delicious look on him, I have to admit. And I must look incredibly pathetic, because what he asks next barely even computes.

“Can I give you a hug, Maren?”

I’m so stunned by the kindness of the request that I don’t even think to resist. “Sure.”

Tuck opens his arms and pulls me to his chest. It’s more of an all-encompassing embrace than a hug, like he’s holding me close to protect me, and I don’t hate it.

In fact, I think I need it.

He smells like spice and salt, feels warm as a campfire. His arms lock around me firmly but gently, enough that I can feel their strength but not get trapped by it. I curl my hands into his chest, my vision filled with the bronze skin at the base of his throat where his pulse dances steadily.

It’s a good, good hug.

When I pull away, his T-shirt is damp with what I realize are my tears.

“Goddammit,” I whisper, and scrub at my eyes. “I’m sorry. I’m really fucking exhausted, and I—”

“Hey, hey.” Tuck smiles. “It’s fine. You don’t have to explain.”

But I do, I think. I do, because I’m not like this. I’m not weak. I’m not vulnerable. I’m not someone you can manipulate this easily, with fancy shit and four-hundred-thread-count sheets.

I might be broke, but I’m not broken.

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