Page 24 of The Dark Obsession

It’s empty.

Neither Nero nor Tyson anywhere to be found.

Now that I think of it, I haven’t heard anyone down here either. I should be relieved, yet a sense of unease settles over me at being left here all on my own.

Great, now I’m craving the company of my captor. This is all so messed up I can barely keep up with how fast my head spins.

My concerns quickly evaporate as my gaze lands on the ginormous marble kitchen island set with an assortment of fruits and a kettle of steaming hot tea.

And in the midst of it all, a neatly folded note instantly catches my attention.

Morning, little one.

If you crave something else, feel free to look around or just call out for me.

Tyson

Huh, that’s weirdly considerate.

I always eat fruit for breakfast because something heavier would make me feel sick early in the day. Why am I not in the least surprised he knows that.

My kidnapper made me breakfast, now the world finally makes sense.

Pouring myself a cup of the deliciously smelling beverage, I nibble at some apple slices since I’m not that hungry with my stomach tied in a nervous knot.

Giving up halfway through the piece of fruit, I set my heart on looking through the cabinets.

I go through every nook and cranny, discovering all kinds of meticulously organized dishes and utensils, especially taking note of where Tyson keeps his sharp knives.

Apparently, he trusts that I won’t kill him in his sleep to leave them out in the open.

And he’d be right in his assumption. A weak, petite girl like me isn’t a threat to him.

The right hook I threw with those nail scissors was the best I had in me, and that didn’t faze him in the least.

It’s insulting really, he could have at least pretended to be hurting to make me feel a little less like a total failure.

Dropping my head with a heavy sigh, I brace myself against the counter when I hear it.

A heavy thud coming from the outside,again and again.

Following the source of the strange noise, I step out onto the porch just as the sound of a splitting log echoes through the air, making me stop dead in my tracks.

Tyson who’s standing not too far off over by the greenhouse is swinging an enormous axe above his head, chopping wood with long, powerful thrusts.

And he’s shirtless.

His sun kissed skin glistening with a sheen of sweat running down the crevices of his muscles bunching up with every menacing move.

He’s wearing the same black combat boots and cargo pants hanging low on his sculpted waist. His chiseled abs looking like they’re made of granite.

Endless seconds pass and I swallow hard, unable to tear my eyes away from his body straining with each swing.

The man is massive, easily 6’3”.

Cocking his head my way, our eyes lock and the guy smirks like he knows exactly how long I’ve been watching him.

At least I didn’t stare open-mouthed.

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