Page 52 of Stealing His Cupcake (Stockholm Syndrome for the Win #2)

Amy

I managed not to crash the car. Small miracles, right?

Or a really big one, in my case. Wyatt rewarded me by teasing me with my new magic wand until I thought I’d spontaneously combust and then fucking me like a savage, essentially rendering me a boneless, sweaty heap when he was done.

In turn, I made him spicy muffins and a batch of croissants for tomorrow’s breakfast. Then we watched Price of Passion, comfortably cuddled on the couch with a bowl of popcorn.

It was a picture-perfect evening, and the only thing I regretted was that I couldn’t share it with my best friend.

Not to brag, but to simply show Kayla I’m happy and she doesn’t have to worry about me.

“Something wrong?” I ask blearily as I flick on the lamp. Blinking in the sudden light, I watch Wyatt hurriedly put on clothes. When he starts putting on sheaths with knives, I swallow roughly, knowing there’s trouble even before he grabs his gun.

“Stay inside,” he orders. I quickly nod, not even thinking about disobeying him because, for one, I’m not an idiot, and two, this isn’t my Wyatt.

This is that cold, detached version of him.

The one who didn’t even blink when cutting off Turbo’s fingers or snapping his neck.

This is the killer Wyatt, and he’s out for blood.

“I mean it, Amy,” he says, a flicker of emotion appearing in his eyes before the darkness extinguishes it again.

“No matter what you hear, do not leave the house.”

I nod again. “I won’t. Don’t worry about me. Just be careful, okay?”

His expression softens a little as he leans in to kiss me.

“I will.” No sooner does he straighten up than his ruthless mask is back on.

I’m not afraid of him, though, because I know my Wyatt is in there somewhere.

I’m afraid for him, even after he pulls an actual bulletproof vest over his head.

“There’s one for you too,” he says, pointing to a box he pulled from under the bed.

“Guns, too. If there’s trouble, put a vest on, grab a gun, and shoot anyone who isn’t me. Understand?”

“Okay,” I reply warily, though even the thought of picking up a weapon scares me. I don’t think I’d be able to actually fire it at someone.

Even if it meant saving your life? Or Wyatt’s? The voice snickers. You’d pull the trigger without a second’s hesitation, girl.

I want to say the voice is wrong, but is it, really? I consider myself a pacifist, but the idea of Wyatt being hurt heats my blood to a boiling point. Yeah. I would absolutely shoot someone threatening my husband. In the leg, or something, not to kill them, but still.

As I watch Wyatt slip out of the bedroom, I wonder if this bloodthirstiness is new, if he has somehow infected me with it, or if it was always there, deep inside of me, and I just suppressed it because I was trying to be a good girl everyone liked. A good girl people wouldn’t abandon .

Wyatt isn’t abandoning me, I remind myself. He’s never going to abandon me, not willingly, and I better make sure no one takes him away from me either. I can start by not sitting here like a stupid practice target, right in full view of the floor-to-ceiling window.

Slipping behind the bed, I glance inside the box Wyatt left open.

A second bulletproof vest is there, just like he said.

Why does he keep two vests under his bed when he never has anyone over?

Is it like keeping an extra toothbrush in case someone stays over, or did he add it there specifically for me?

How sweet would that be? A little scary that he’d expect someone to attack us in our bedroom, but still.

Putting the vest on, I grab the gun that looks most familiar and check that it’s loaded, begrudgingly thanking Ricky Morales for all those shooting range “dates”. Who would have thought they’d actually prove useful one day?

Keeping low, I leave the bedroom, thinking about the best place to hide.

The living room has one entire wall made of glass, so that’s hardly the best place, and the kitchen is connected to it.

The guest room, on the other hand, only has one regular window that opens to the front of the house.

I have a feeling that’s where Wyatt went and, while I intend to follow his instructions and stay inside, I want to see what’s happening.

Drawing on every action flick I’ve ever seen, I stalk over to the window, peering out without moving the curtain.

At first, all I see is our driveway, bathed in near complete darkness.

There’s some moonlight illuminating the scene, enough to distinguish the rough shapes of the mailbox or the trash cans, but I don’t see Wyatt or anyone else.

In fact, there’s no movement and everything is eerily quiet. Except…

There! A flicker of light, like from a lighter. It comes from the bushes to the right. A single, tiny flame at first, then it spreads a little, as if the flames are licking at something larger.

An indistinct figure rises from behind the bushes, the flaming object in one hand. With a start, I realize it’s a bottle with a piece of fabric sticking out of it, fabric that’s on fire. A Molotov cocktail .

Before I can react, the figure tosses the bottle at the house.

The flames flicker and almost die, only to come back with renewed intensity as the bottle shatters against the front door.

There’s no explosion, though, and as far as I can see the fire doesn’t spread too far, either, the flames only licking the part of the door soaked with whatever accelerant was in the bottle.

We might need a new front door but unless the stranger has a lot more of those bottles at hand, it’s unlikely the house would catch on fire.

He seems to realize this as well. I can’t see his face, hidden under a hood, but his clenched fists and tense posture scream of frustration. Instead of attempting to launch another bottle, he makes his first wise decision of the evening—he turns to leave.

Then Wyatt is there, the crack of a gunshot deafeningly loud in the night's silence. The flickering flames from the door cast more light on the scene now so I can see the stranger stumble as the bullet hits him, but he doesn’t fall.

Before Wyatt can shoot again, the stranger disappears between the trees.

Paying no attention to the dying fire, Wyatt keeps scanning the treeline, the barrel of his gun steady as he moves it between the shadows.

I hate that he’s just standing there so exposed, but I have to believe he knows what he’s doing.

It’s not like I would be of any help out there.

I might know how to fire a gun, but I doubt I’d hit anything smaller than a barn door from this distance.

The only thing I’d achieve would be distracting him and possibly getting him killed.

Deciding to do something actually useful instead, I drop the gun and hurry to the utility room to grab a fire extinguisher.

The air behind the front door is a little smoky, but there are no flames on this side.

Either the door was specifically designed to withstand fire or the stranger had no idea what he was doing. Probably both.

Setting the fire extinguisher by the door, I move back to the guest room to see what’s going on.

Wyatt is still there, now studying the spot where the stranger had been hiding.

The danger must be over because he’s using his phone as a flashlight, making himself a bright target for any shooter hiding in the woods.

Me

All clear?

It only takes a few seconds for the response to arrive.

Mr. DarkAndMysterious

STAY INSIDE!!!!!!!!

Me

Of course I will. I’m not stupid *eyeroll emoji* I put the fire extinguisher by the door. When it’s safe, you can put out the rest of the fire.

Mr. DarkAndMysterious

Good thinking. Don’t leave the house.

Rolling my eyes, I send him a thumb up before returning my attention outside.

Aside from the fact that our door is still somewhat burning, everything seems quiet and peaceful, as if we hadn’t just been attacked.

Is this a normal occurrence for Wyatt? He’s rattled, but perhaps that’s just because of my presence.

I’m his weakness now and, according to my TV experience, it doesn’t bode well for either of us.

Especially for me. The woman almost always dies in situations like this.

Perhaps it’s just Hollywood sexism, but there might be a grain of truth to it.

I don’t want to die and become an inciting incident to Wyatt’s spectacular revenge arc, but what can I do?

It’s not like I can learn to defend myself against someone with years of training in just a few days.

I could make Wyatt teach me some basic self-defense and perhaps visit a shooting range to improve my aim, but if push comes to shove, I’ll always lose against whoever is after him.

As lame as it sounds, right now the best I can do is to just stay back and keep myself as safe as possible.