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CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Josie

Careful what you wish for

I am going to kill him.

I don’t know how.

I don’t know when.

But if I ever get my hands free, Ken is a dead man. I never wanted to be a murderer, but here we are.

My wrists are raw from the ties, skin scraped red and stinging, my ankles still bound, a tight ache throbbing with every shift. My mouth tastes of copper, dry from the gag he only just loosened, and whatever he drugged me with clings—a chemical haze pounding in my skull, blurring the edges of my vision. My tongue feels thick, heavy, like it’s betraying me too. But the fury in my chest? That’s sharp as hell, a live wire sparking through the fog. Betrayal cuts deeper than fear—and I’m terrified, gut churning, heart slamming against my ribs. Every breath rasps, shallow and ragged, as the room tilts just enough to make me grip the couch harder.

Ken paces, jaw tight, hands flexing like he’s debating how to dump me over coffee. Like this isn’t a kidnapping. Like I’m not tied to a couch in some nowhere cabin.

“Listen,” he says, voice too even, like we’re tangled in sheets, not this nightmare. “I know you’re pissed.”

Pissed. Pissed?

A snarl rips out, half-laugh, half-threat, muffled by the gag. Oh, the things I’d say—twist his damn testicles off, that bastard.

He leans closer, just out of kicking range—smart asshole. “Josie, stop looking at me like that. I feel bad enough.”

Bad enough? I swear into the gag, picturing his fingers snapping. I trusted him—bed, life, parents—and he couldn’t kill me without breaking my heart first?

My mind flashes—Ken in my kitchen two weeks back. He was at the stove, apron tied sloppily, stirring sauce that’s splattered on his shirt. “You’re hopeless,” I laughed, leaning against the counter, and he grinned, that rare, unguarded smile that warmed me to my toes. The pan bubbled over, sauce dripping onto the burner, and he cursed, fumbling with the spoon. I grabbed a towel, giggling as we mopped it up together, his hand brushing mine—soft, deliberate. “Teamwork,” he said, voice low, and I felt safe, wanted, like maybe he was the one who wouldn’t bolt. Now, that memory twists like a knife—and that trust is ash. He drugged me, threw me in a trunk, and I’m choking on the betrayal, fury boiling hotter than that damn sauce ever did.

“Let’s start easy,” he says, scratching his chin like I’m a puzzle. “No screaming, and I’ll take it off.”

Breathe. Four in, four out. True crime survivors humanize themselves—right? He’s had me naked; he should see me as a person. Unless this is trafficking. Holy fuck. Don’t panic.

I nod, sharp and grudging.

He unties the gag, gently, stepping back. “Better? Now we can talk.”

“Better?” My voice rasps, hoarse and furious, scraping my throat raw. “Talk about what? You drugging me? Throwing me in your trunk?”

He winces—good. “When you say it like that, it does sound—”

“Fucking crazy, Ken?”

A muscle ticks in his jaw. He drags a hand over his face, tired. “You don’t have to do this. Let me go—no one needs to know.”

Regret flickers—almost—then vanishes. “My name’s Kaden.”

I laugh, sharp, humorless. “You think I care about your name? I’m tied up in the woods—call yourself whatever, just untie me.”

He smirks. Smirks.

“Sorry,” I grind out, teeth clenched. “Could’ve said it nicer.”

His jaw tightens, fists curl—then he laughs. “If I brought you here to kill you, do you think I’d care about your tone?” He sobers, glancing around. “Not why we’re here. Though, yeah, this is how I’d do it.”

My breath hitches, shallow, frantic. No, no, no.

“Christ, Josie, breathe—you’ll pass out.” He crouches, close. “You’re not making this easy.”

“You kidnapped me, you psychopath!”

He raises his hands—surrender. “I get it, the trunk sucked. But we’ve got bigger issues you’ll need to move past.”

My jaw drops. What? The ties dig into my wrists, into my ankles, a dull burn that pulses with every twitch. Every part of me screams move, fight, do something—but there’s nowhere to go.

I’m trapped by a man I was afraid would leave me. My eyes dart past him—there, against the wall, a rifle’s propped, barrel glinting faintly in the dim light. A map pinned beside it, red lines snaking across it, routes marked with precision that chills me. A duffel bag slumps nearby, bulging with gear I can’t name but know means trouble. This isn’t random—he’s planned this, every step, and the weight of that sinks in. The air’s thick with dust and pine, the couch creaking under me, and I realize how deep this goes. The danger’s real, not just in my head, and that flicker of doubt—is he saving me?—wars with the fear clawing my gut. Careful what you wish for, isn’t that what people say?

He pulls a knife from his boot. I freeze, breath gone. One tug—wrists free. Another—ankles loose. He stays close, rubbing my raw wrists, thumb brushing like post-sex whispers.