I have been so conflicted all morning. When I woke up this morning to find myself in a comfortable bed in a house—albeit a house I hardly recognized—instead of on that rickety mattress in the bunker, a wave of relief washed over me.

That is, until I heard the scuffling of someone moving around in the living room. It all came rushing back to me. Sal coming into the bunker to save me. Leading me out into the sunshine. Making me food. Avoiding all my pointed questions. Going to bed wearing his clothes, which smelled just like him. Masculine and warm.

And my dream, the memory still lingering in the back of my mind, the phantom sensation of his kiss on my throat still so prominent in my mind. Even with the dark realization that he might be someone far worse than I could imagine.

But what else can I do? The last time I went to the police... It was terrible. I met a man at the restaurant, and we started flirting. He invited me back to his place, and I thought: why not? I never let myself have any fun.

Once we got there, though, he changed. His hands were on me, and it was only lucky that I was able to escape him. That time, I fled right to the police, and their barrage of questions.

How well did you know him? Sounds like it was just a date, are you sure you weren’t giving off the wrong signals? He probably just misunderstood. Well, you did go back to his place after 10pm, what did you expect he wanted?

My stomach lurches at the memories, and I try to shake them away.

No, the cops wouldn’t be able to help me. Especially if my kidnapper is nowhere to be found. Who would I even tell them took me? And the way Sal dodged my questions... he doesn’t want to answer a lot of questions about where my kidnapper is.

I was always the girl that tried to play safe. To keep to herself, head down, always working. And look what that got me.

For once, I’m going to go for what I actually want. Trying to avoid danger has never saved me from it. So maybe taking a risk, and accepting fate’s gift is what I need to heal.

Suddenly, I need to be near him. It’s like a magnetic pull, dragging me out of bed and to his side. I walk into the living room and see him packing a bag, fully dressed and serious.

He glances at me, a smile coming to his lips as darkness swirls in his gaze. It’s beautiful.

“Where are you going?”

“There are things you need if you’re going to stay here.”

“How do you know I’m going to stay?”

He looks at me, his eyes narrowing a little. “I already told you. It isn’t safe for you to leave.”

“But you never told me why. Why should I trust you?”

He sighs, looking at me, taking a step closer before something holds him back from closing the distance between us.

“Because. I will protect you. Things are... complicated.”

“Complicated because you took care of the man that kidnapped me?”

“Yes.”

“Sal... you saved me. I... I wouldn’t get you in trouble. You’re a hero.”

His eyes rage with that storm once more, and he closes the distance, cupping my face in his hardened hand. I can feel every callous, every rough spot from his renovations, every little scar with such intensity, and it sends a shiver through me. I haven’t been touched in so long, and it feels so good.

When I open my eyes again, he has a curious expression on his face, watching me.

It’s almost as though he can read my thoughts, see that desire churning in my body, and I draw in my lower lip nervously. For a second, I think he’s going to kiss me, and my heart races in anticipation. I let my lower lip go, glistening from my mouth, trying to tempt him to do just that.

But he resists the urge and heads towards the door.

“Just stay here. It’s not safe for you out there yet, but I’ll be back soon. And then we can figure out what to do.”

“What to do... with me?”

He stares at me for a second, shaking his head.

“Just what to do, Eva. You’re safe here. Protected. Let me keep protecting you.”

He closes the door before I can reply, and I look around at my newfound freedom. I check each of the rooms, looking for any sign of my captor, but I don’t find anything, and I find I’m exhausted, so I go to the kitchen and begin cooking. Nothing fancy, but it’s not from a can, so it’s practically heaven.

Every now and then, I catch myself thinking about running away. After all, I’m alone in the house. It’s not like Sal can keep me locked up here forever. It’s not even like I want to be locked in here forever.

But I don’t want to leave. I know nothing about Sal, but he’s fascinating to me. He doesn’t talk non-stop about sports or the latest new toy he bought. He’s skilled with his hands...

A pleasant chill runs through me at that thought.

All my time in the bunker, I refused to touch myself, to find comfort in arousal and orgasm. I denied all my urges, no matter how much my fantasies took me into another world of pleasure and lust.

I know it seems sick to even be thinking about those things when I was locked in a bunker, but I was trapped with nothing to occupy my mind other than fears of the darkness I’d find once that door opened for me and my captor took me once more. Pleasant fantasies of a normal life was what kept me sane.

But now I find myself pent-up, and fantasizing about Sal’s lips on my neck, then going lower, and lower.

I shake my head, forcing myself out of my reverie. I don’t know anything about Sal.

For all I know, he could be an associate of the pervert who brought me here

But I don’t feel that from him. I don’t see him being that kind of man. Still, though, with his demeanor and hulking frame, there’s no way Sal is just an accountant or a salesman or something. There’s a streak of danger about him, something I should fear.

I know I should.

I have to be careful.

But I spent the night, and he never touched me. Just a dreamed kiss, and a pleasant sensation between my legs, and then the fear of who he really is. He was a perfect gentleman. Or at least one of the best I’ve met, as terrible as that is to say.

How odd it is to trust someone implicitly. As a rule, I never trust anyone fully. I keep everyone at arm’s length, just in case they could hurt me. I’ve spent my whole life that way, afraid to let anyone get close to me. But Sal is different. He saved me. He took care of me. He’s looking out for me when no one else will.

If I were smart, I would figure out a way to escape, to return to the real world and try and get my life back on track. Shouldn’t I? Surely I can’t just spend the rest of my life hiding out in this farmhouse, hiding from facing the world and their horrible judgments.

But every time I think about leaving, I feel this twinge of fear. This longing for something. No, someone. I don’t know if it is just my extreme loneliness or disorientation at being suddenly freed after weeks underground, but I just can’t bear the thought of leaving Sal. And I get the sense he doesn’t want me to leave either, though I have no idea why.

“Get a grip,” I tell myself aloud as I sit by the window, watching the gravel road overgrown with weeds. “You have no reason to feel loyal to him. He didn’t come here looking for you. He just happened to come across you. Right place, right time. Nothing more.”

But I can’t get myself to agree with that. Maybe it is just fate. What do I have to go back to in Rochester? I’ve been gone for weeks with no warning. My bosses have long since given up on me. I’ve been fired, for sure. I have no real friends, my mom’s been gone for years, and I never did get myself that cat I wanted. Nobody depends on me. Nobody misses me. Unless you count my father, who has supposedly suddenly decided he wants me in his life out of nowhere.

I don’t count him.

I’m sure my disappearance has gone unnoticed. I might as well be nobody. But for as long as I can manage it, at least I can be a nobody with Sal. No one else has ever shown me the kind of patience and gentleness he showed me yesterday, not since my mother died and left me alone in the world.

The man who saved me from the sickest fates imaginable. It’s like a fairytale, isn’t it?

I halfheartedly chuckle, thinking of my life winding up like a fairytale. From rags to riches, isn’t that the dream? And Sal doesn’t seem rich. He just seems... right.

Which is why it’s been so difficult waiting for him to come back. What if he’s abandoning me? What if ‘going to town for supplies’ was just his ruse to get out of dodge?

“No,” I tell myself. “He wouldn’t do that to me. He promised he wouldn’t leave.”

And just as I’m saying that, I hear the faint rumble of tires on gravel. I jump up, my heart pounding away as I stare out the window. Sal’s sleek, shiny black car comes rolling up to the house and I bolt away to the front door, pushing it open and running outside. I can’t wait to be close to him again. I need him. Desperately.

The car rolls to a stop and I stand there in my oversized T-shirt and boxers, barefoot, my hair a wild mess and my heart thumping, waiting for my savior to get out and return to me. When the door pushes open, Sal slowly gets out, standing tall even as he clutches a strip of blood-soaked fabric to his left bicep. My stomach turns and I gasp, clapping a hand over my mouth. Then I see his face. There’s a bloody scratch under his right eye, a purplish bruise blooming on his cheek. He’s hurt. And it does not look good.

“Oh my god!” I cry out, rushing over to him. “Were you in an accident?” I look at the vehicle, noting not a scratching on the front, nothing that seems off really. He’s stoic and unruffled as always, looking down at me with those solemn, dark brown eyes. There’s pain there, and a twinge of regret. “What happened?” I demand to know, reaching up to gingerly touch his cheek. He doesn’t shy away from my touch, but he reaches up to take my hand and give it a squeeze.

“It doesn’t matter. I will be fine,” he assures me in that low growl. “There are bags in the back seat. Can you grab them?”

I shake my head fiercely. “Yes, I can. But no, you can’t just brush this off, Sal. You’re injured. Come inside and let me look at your wounds, okay? I can help you.”

“You can?” he asks dubiously, one dark eyebrow raised.

I grab the bags from the backseat, then take his hand and start pulling him toward the front door.

“Yes. I can. I’ve been taking night classes to become a nurse. Or at least I was. I guess they’ve probably kicked me out of the course by now, I’ve missed so many assignments,” I sigh, fully realizing this loss for the first time. “But don’t worry. I was the top of my class while I was still enrolled. I know what to do.”

At least, I hope I do, I think to myself. I hurry Sal inside, leading him into the kitchen, as it’s the cleanest, most sanitary room of the house. I instruct him to sit down at the table. I kneel down beside him, peeling away the bloody fabric he’s been pressing against his arm to staunch the blood flow. He holds it there, almost like he doesn’t want me to see the injury.

I look up at his face with my lips pursed.

“Your color is still good, and you seem fully cognizant, so it doesn’t look like you’ve lost too much blood,” I remark. “But you have to let me look at the wound. I need to make sure it’s not going to get infected.”

Reluctantly, he pulls the strip away and I try not to gasp at the bloody gash on his arm. It doesn’t look like a wound from a car accident. It looks more like a gunshot wound, but it’s not deep enough. Besides, how the hell would he have gotten into a gunfight? He was hardly gone for several hours!

“Sal,” I breathe, clucking my tongue sympathetically. “That looks awfully painful.”

He shrugs, an unadvisable move for someone with an injured arm. “It’s not bad. I have certainly had worse than that.”

I look up at him, furrowing my brows in confusion. “You’ve had worse than… this?”

He clams up, clearly under the impression that he’s said too much already. Getting information out of this guy is like pulling teeth.

“You know, you may be the one person on the planet more emotionally closed-off than I am,” I comment, getting up to grab a damp paper towel. I wet it in the sink and come back to dab lightly at the wound. I brace myself for him to jerk away at the pain, but he doesn’t even flinch. It’s like he doesn’t feel pain. He doesn’t feel anything at all, it appears.

“Doesn’t that hurt?” I inquire, carefully wiping away dried blood. I get up and grab the whole roll of paper towels, getting to work. Sal sits stiffly, watching me out of the corner of his eye. I can tell that he’s not accustomed to anyone fussing over him like this.

“It doesn’t hurt much,” he admits finally. “Just a twinge.”

“So, are you going to tell me how the hell this happened? Or do I have to guess?” I ask.

Sal sighs. “It’s nothing for you to worry about.”

“Look, you saved my life, and now I’m going to patch you up. I think we owe each other a little more information. A little more… vulnerability,” I suggest, blushing. I can’t think of a better word for what I want from him. He scoffs.

“You really want to know?” he says flatly.

I nod. “Yes. It will help me determine how best to treat the wound.”

“It was a bullet.”

“What?” I burst out, dropping my paper towel to the floor. I reach for another one, this time to dab at the cut under his eye. He tries to move away from me but I catch him.

“It barely grazed my arm. No big deal,” he says, shrugging.

“No big…” I trail off, shaking my head. “Sal. Someone shot you.”

“They missed.”

“Not entirely!” I exclaim, pointing at his arm.

“Just a scrape,” he remarks. I roll my eyes.

“Okay. So a bullet just lightly scraped your arm. What about your face? What happened here? Don’t tell me it was another bullet that just happened to scrape your face,” I say, folding my arms over my chest. He looks reluctant to answer, but I just stare at him until he gives in.

“This was a fist.”

“A… sharp fist?” I press him, gesturing to the scratch.

“A fist wearing a sharp ring,” he adds.

“Okay, now we’re getting somewhere,” I say. “Whose fist was it? Who did this to you?”

Sal closes his mouth and gives me a defiant look. I stand up, scooping the paper towels into my hands to dump them in the trash and start over with fresh ones. I pull up a chair and sit in front of Sal, imploring him with my eyes.

“You’re really not going to tell me,” I mutter in frustration.

“Why do you want to know so badly?” he asks softly.

“Because I just do!” I exclaim, throwing up my hands. “Look, it’s been a weird month, okay? You know that. I was trapped in some creepy pervert’s lair for weeks. Then you found me. You saved me, Sal. And you’re not a cop. You’re not a detective. You’re a stranger who just happened to find me, and now we’re both hiding here in this dilapidated house like squatters and you won’t tell me anything about yourself.”

“We’re not squatting,” he says.

“What?” I ask, rubbing the bridge of my nose.

“We aren’t squatters here. I own the property. I bought it under foreclosure.”

“Really? Out of everything I just said, that’s the part you’re going to answer?” I complain. He gives me a faint smile.

“You’re asking a lot of questions, but I don’t know anything about you, either,” he says.

“Fine. What do you want to know? I’m an open book,” I tell him, leaning back in the chair. Sal fixes me with a dubious expression. “What? I’m serious. Go ahead. Ask away.”

“Where are you from?” he asks.

“Rochester.”

“Do you know the name of the man who brought you here? How do you know him? Or rather, how does he know you?” he asks.

I bite my lip.

“I don’t know his name. And I had never met him before. I think he just chose me at random. He saw the opportunity to take me, and he did. It was just a case of being at the wrong place at the wrong time. I’ve had bad luck all my life, this is no different.”

Sal doesn’t look satisfied with that answer, but he moves on. “Why do you say you have bad luck?”

I groan, rolling my eyes. “Okay, this isn’t fair. I’m asking simple, pertinent questions and you’re demanding my life story.”

“Bad luck is your life story?” he says pointedly.

I blush, feeling both exposed and frustrated. I know why I’m asking all these questions. I’m starved for conversation, for closeness. Hell, I’ve been locked away with no contact with the outside world for nearly a month. Of course I’m a little needy. It doesn’t mean anything. Does it?

“I have another question,” I say softly. “And it’s an important one.”

Sal looks concerned, his upper lip twitching, “Ask it.”

“Why do you want me to stay here? What’s going on? Why can’t I leave?” I ask, looking up at him through my lashes. I’m afraid of the answer. I’m afraid of his reaction. But he just looks at me, sizing me up.

“That’s not something I can answer just yet,” he says slowly.

“Why the hell not? You know, I trust you, Sal. God damn it, I know I shouldn’t. But I do. You say it’s not safe for me to leave, and even though I should be suspicious of you, I’m not. I believe you. But you can’t even give me a straight answer as to why?” I demand.

“It would put you in danger. It’s just not safe for you, or us. There will be time for that… later on,” he says.

“Ugh!” I groan, cradling my face in my hands. Then I look back up at him, frustrated tears burning in my eyes. “Sal, who are you?”

His eyes are sorrowful. Apologetic. Like he wants to say more, but he can’t. I lean in closer, dabbing at the spot under his eye. Both his wounds are closing up nicely, neatly. Even the bruise on his cheek seems to be going down. There’s that same intense heat radiating off of him, the air between us somehow imbued with electricity. I’m so annoyed with him, and yet all I can think about is how I want to get closer. Press myself against him. Share that warmth and bask in his glow. I want him to make me feel alive again.

His dark eyes glance down at my lips, just for a moment. Barely noticeable, but just enough to make my heart skip a beat.

But he remains silent.

There’s scarcely two inches between us. I swear I can hear his heart beating, slow and steady compared to my hummingbird rhythm.

“You won’t let me leave, and you won’t give me any answers, either,” I murmur, shaking my head. “Sal, what can you give me?”

He reaches to cup my face gently with his huge hand and I lean into his touch. Then, without thinking twice about it, I lean forward and press my lips against his, sending a shock of electric pleasure down my spine.