Page 2 of After Our Kiss

- Chapter One -

Georgia Mary King

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Iawoke abruptly to the sight of myself overhead.

A mirror?I wondered. It was full length, scuffed from top to bottom. There was a section near the top, right over my face that I swear was covered in claw marks. In a heartbeat I recalled everything.

The figure entering my bedroom.

The astringent scent that knocked me out.

The hard, violent arms that pulled me from my sheets.

My reflection showed that I was lying on a pale mattress, wearing the same clothes I'd gone to sleep in; gray sweatpants, a black tank top, no bra. I'd been low on clean pajamas. No matter how many times I told mom she didn't need to wash my things, she insisted. But she rarely followed through.

I wondered if this was her fault, in a way. Had her lack of focus meant she'd forgotten to lock our front door? Had she naively let someone inside? She'd been so lonely without Dad—so lost.She could be hurt, too.There was no guarantee that I was the only victim.Oh, god, Mom. Please be okay.

My eyes mirrored the stillness of my heart. I did not breathe, I didn't beg—except to ask my body to remain strong. I didn't know where I was or what waited for me. I was only sure of the tragedy of it.

“You're awake,” a voice said nearby.

My impulse was to look. Instead, I shut my eyes, scrunching them so they couldn't be pried apart. The stillness went out of me. My lungs thrummed, forcing air between my tightly clenched teeth.Someone is here!Was it the person who'd taken me? I couldn't remember anything about them, my brain heavy as a loaf of bread in the rain.

He—and it was definitely a he—asked, “What are you doing?”

Should I answer? What do I do?I'd been cautioned against danger all my life, but never told what to do once I was deep in it. The closest training I had was seeing an action movie or three where hostages were held at gunpoint. Usually, the kidnappers had demands. The hostages often ended up dead.

Flexing my body, I tested my bonds. Some kind of strap was keeping my wrists locked over my head on top of each other, my feet crossed at the ankle, bound the same. I could wriggle, but nothing more.

I was powerless.

No,I corrected myself.I can't move, but he can't make me talk to him. I don't have to look at his face.Small as they were, those little rebellions gave me a flash of strength.

And then the bed shifted with the weight of the stranger. His shadow fell over me, a hand—warm and rough—brushing over my forehead. “Are you feeling sick from the chloroform?” he whispered. His breath was gentle where it stirred across my cheek.

My eyes shot open.

Skin whiter than a lily, and irises the same shade as a lion's claws. This man... no, a boy—surely not far from my own age—was pretty in a subtle way. All long fingers, longer limbs, with thick, dark hair that swept over his brooding eyes. I'd never known someone in real life who was this handsome. There was sympathy in the subtle tilt of his eyebrows. But I wasn't stupid enough to fall for that.

He'd hurt me.

He'd yanked me from mybed.

I looked at him point blank, and I spit on him.

Jerking back, he released me. “What the hell was that for?” Wiping at his cheek, he stared dubiously at his own palm, then back at me.

Something about his surprise infuriated me.What was that FOR?How could he have the balls to even ask! Thrashing in my bonds, I inhaled, preparing to scream.

His hand slammed over my lips. “Shh!” he hissed, his inky eyes shooting towards one side of the room. It was the first time I actually looked around. The walls were an oatmeal-gray, some spots covered in peeling bird wallpaper. There were no windows, no rugs - nothing but my bed, the ceiling mirror, and a single door with a bolted lock.

“Seriously,” he said, his voice low enough to miss. “Stay quiet. Please. You don't want my dad to come in here sooner than he plans to.”

In the liquid depths of his mysterious eyes, I caught the hint of something swimming. Not anger; the slippery fin of fear. This boy was afraid...for himself, for me?

Lifting my eyebrows, I nodded my head. He understood thatIunderstood, because he slid his hand off of my mouth. Swallowing around my rising nerves, I asked, “Who are you? Was it your dad who kidnapped me, where am I?”

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