Page 39 of The Vigilante's Lover

No sooner has the scream escaped my lips when I force it to stop.

Don’t be a ninny, Mia, I tell myself. Be brave. Face this.

The man stands at the end of my bed, but he’s not Jax. He’s fair skinned and not quite as tall. He smokes his cigarette. I can only see him when he inhales from it.

“Who are you?” I finally ask.

He leans forward, the cigarette trapped between his lips. His face is eerily red from the faint light.

He takes the cigarette from his mouth and disappears into the dark again. I follow his hand where the only light is now, by the banister in the corner. He hasn’t tied my feet or body, only my wrists.

But it’s dark. He can’t see me. He’s not wearing a night-vision monocle like Jax did that first night.

I think about the ties, touching the turns with my fingertips. Slipknots. Standard issue. My hands are separated, so I can’t use the opposite fingers to untie one like I did in the barn. But I remember what Jax said. “Work with the knots.”

A slipknot is meant to slide before it locks into place. I just have to move opposite the direction of the turn.

“You didn’t answer me,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady. I roll my fingers in as far as they will go, trying to pluck at the cross bend in the knot.

“I don’t plan to,” he says.

His accent is German. Could this be Klaus? The dead Klaus?

Or not-so-dead?

But Klaus was Jax’s friend. He wouldn’t act like this. I go back to concentrating on my knots.

“What does Jax want with a civilian like you?” he asks.

“What does Jax usually want a woman for?” I fire back.

The man chuckles. “True enough.”

Despite my focus on the knot, my belly burns at how everyone assumes I’m some plaything for Jax. I refuse to believe it. Maybe everything I know about dalliances comes from novels, but I’m pretty sure the way we feel is what stories are told about. Not the stuff of beer ads and condom commercials.

I’ve loosened the knot.

I pause to rest my arm just for a moment. My eyes are starting to adjust to the low light. The man’s cigarette drops ash on my bed.

“You’re going to start a fire on my grandma’s quilt,” I say bitterly.

He shakes his head as he takes another drag. His hair is light colored and shaggy.

I start working on the other knot. I can’t pull free just yet. This man can’t know I can get out of his pathetic ties.

“What did he find so interesting about you?” he asks. The cigarette comes around to the side of the bed and the mattress dips as he sits next to me.

My skin crawls, but I realize that this is my opportunity to get the upper hand. “Why don’t you come find out?” I say, hoping I sound suggestive. I’m not good at this.

The hand with the cigarette stays by his knee, but another one touches my shoulder. I try not to flinch. The other knot is loose enough for me to go free. I can’t risk that he’ll see me if I let my arm down, so I leave it high.

His hand moves down, tracing the curve of my breast. I steel myself from concerning myself with that and wait for the proper moment.

“Very nice,” he says. “Maybe we need a little illumination so I can see what got Jax so distracted that he made mistakes.”

My throat tightens. What mistakes? Was he caught again?

“You’ve seen him?” I ask, forcing the tremor out of my voice.

“So many questions.” The hand moves over to the buttons of my pajama top and unfastens the first one.

I keep my eye on the cigarette. It’s about to burn down to his fingers. He’ll have to do something about it, and that’s when I’ll make a move.

Another button comes undone, then another. He moves the fabric aside to brush his fingers across my skin.

Come on, cigarette. Burn.

“Nice,” he says.

I decide it’s best not to goad him or talk, but just wait. Goose bumps pop on my skin from the chill, but I’m definitely not moved by this man. I’m pleased to know that it really was Jax, and that I haven’t become some BDSM love-slave addict.

He finally notices the cigarette and pauses to stab it out on my antique side table.

Asshole!

I jerk my arms from the ropes and pull them to me in one fast move. Before he can totally extinguish the light, I have a timber-hitch tie around his wrist.

He moves back in surprise, but I’ve already locked it down. I use the banister as a pulley to drag him forward and his head cracks against the table.

“That’s for damaging a one-hundred-year-old table,” I tell him.

I snag his free hand and whip a fast rolling hitch around it. Two different knots to confuse him if he gets one undone.

I can’t see a thing now that the cigarette is out, but he’s decently tied with both hands immobilized. Still, I have to assume he’s Vigilante and is trained to escape.

Since I don’t have any ends to work with, only the middle, I go with a clove hitch to secure this jerk to my banister. I jump onto the bed, feeling my way up the pole, and pull the tie down over it. I know this is a knot that can be undone if your hands are free, but luckily, Pale Boy’s aren’t.

“I like to get a little freaky,” I tell him as I feel along his body. “Hope you don’t mind.”

He doesn’t answer, and I know he’s probably got some tech on him that can get him help. For all I know he can use brain waves to send a message.

I have to get out of here.

His pockets are full of lumps. I pull everything out that I can find, take off his watch, and just for fun, pull his pants down around his ankles.

And, because I know the power of shoes, I take those too.

I’ve piled everything on the bed. I extract what I think are car keys and drop them in the little sewn pocket on my top. Since I can’t see what I’m doing, I twist the quilt into a loose bundle. I gather it up and back away from the room until I’m in the hall.

And run.

Through the house, fighting the front door locks, and out onto the porch into the pale moonlight. I don’t see this man’s car anywhere. Damn it. I’ll just take my own.

I dash back into the house, snatch my keys, and race across the yard.

The old Ford growls to life. I back out of the drive, now wishing I’d thought to grab some of the tech from the pantry stash. Doesn’t matter. I don’t know how to use it.

I’m at the end of the driveway when I realize — I have nowhere to go. What should I do?

Damn.

I scan the fields. Did someone just drop this guy off? I pull out and ease along the deserted road.

And I see it.

A car, about two hundred yards away.

I pull up behind it and drag the stolen key chain from my pocket. If it’s like Jax’s, it will — yes, as soon as I approach, the keyless locks pop right up.

I drag the door open and squeal a little. It’s a Vigilante-tech car, just like Colette’s and Jax’s.

Do I dare drive it?

I sit in the seat. Once my weight hits the cushion, the car engine fires up, low and rumbling.

I scramble back to my Ford and grab the quilt full of stolen goods. I dump it in the passenger seat and look out the front windshield.

Holy crap, I’m stealing a car and heading into danger.

I give out a whoop and shove the gearshift into drive.