Crossfire (Cross Duet #1)

40. IVY

40

IVY

“Listen,” Grayson said. “You need to stay in my presence. I need to keep an eye on you to ensure your heart continues beating until we can sort this out.”

At this point, I had to pause. Kidnapping, attempted murder, and now a hostage situation with a hit man/captor who looked like an action movie star. Honestly, if someone had told me last week that I’d be here in a high-end bathroom, debating survival strategies with my potential killer, I’d have laughed.

And yet here we were.

“As I said, there are two ways this can play out,” he continued. “Option A: You run, I chase you, I find you, and I drag you back here anyway. That is, of course, if someone doesn’t get to you first. In case you haven’t been keeping count, two separate individuals seem to want you dead. Well, one of them is an entity, I suppose. The one that sent me to end you. That entity may or may not send someone else while I’m spending all this time requiring proof you’re a criminal.”

“I’m not a criminal!” I snarled.

“But I digress. Point is, if you run, most likely, you will wind up dead. Which leaves us with option B. You stay in my presence where I can keep an eye on you until we can sort this out.”

“You honestly think I will willingly be your captive?” I challenged.

“I suppose it depends on how much you value your heart beating.”

I glowered at him and muttered under my breath, “Asshole.”

To any sane person, being kidnapped, nearly murdered, and held against your will should effectively ice over any flicker of attraction. But apparently, my hormones decided to glaze over those “minor details” and opted to throw a party in his honor instead.

This entire situation would be massively easier if the guy wasn’t such a walking, talking, kidnapping Adonis.

He needed to wear a mask, something to conceal that defining jaw and lips. Oh, and glasses, too, to shield me from those ridiculously sexy eyes. It was hard to maintain an appropriate tone with a guy that looked like a model strolling off his latest cover shoot.

“I’m not staying with you,” I declared, defiance flaring within me.

Grayson sighed, but not in an I’m surprised way. In a great, this will be more difficult than I prefer way.

“Which, I suppose, leaves us with option C,” Grayson said.

Option C? He said A and B?

“And what does that involve? A dagger to the heart, a duffel bag, an anchor, and Lake Michigan?” My voice dripped with venom.

“I will keep you against your will. It won’t be pretty. You’ll probably spend the entire time trying to escape, which will be quite uncomfortable for you, not to mention frustrating. But you will stay.”

His confidence was beyond arrogant.

“In fact,” he continued, “I will bring you somewhere remote to keep you safe.”

Remote. As in, what, a shack in the woods with a bucket for a toilet? At least those repulsive living conditions would deflate the chemistry bubble.

“You’re psychotic,” I accused.

He cocked his head.

“Would a psycho give you choices, Ivy?”

Evidently.

“Whether you realize it or not, I’m trying to keep you alive.”

“You’re an assassin who’s been sent to kill me.” A flicker of frustration and—fine, I’ll admit it—fear, threaded through my voice.

He smirked. “Ironic, isn’t it?”

I clenched my jaw.

Ironic? More like delusional.

“Here are the options that I have for you,” I countered, trying to reclaim some semblance of control.

“For a woman bound and captive at my mercy, you sure have a lot of courage to pretend you have any power here. The only power you have is the power I’m giving to you.”

Asshole wasn’t an adequate term. When I got out of this mess, I’d study the English language to find a far more accurate way to describe him.

“Option A”—I jutted my chin up—“I spend every waking second trying to escape until I finally do. And once I finally do, I will go to the police. Your name is Grayson, and I know you have some weird-ass accomplice who wears a mask and comes over to your house in the middle of the night to help you abduct a girl. Maybe the police will start looking into everyone you know, and I can describe their height, their build?—”

The sudden appearance of his face inches from my own cut off my voice before I finished.

“You would be well advised not to provoke me.” His tone was a deep growl of a warning, one that sent ice coating my spine.

Okay, provoking him probably wasn’t the smartest move I ever made, but I couldn’t stand having no power. I hated him for what he was doing to me. If I wanted to feel like a victim, I’d never have taken all those fighting classes, but those classes didn’t train me on how to get myself released from a captor.

I guess I’d been confident that it would never get that far.

But what I hated even more than him right now was how a part of me—albeit a small part—was…enthralled at having the power to make him react this strongly. I mean, the guy was normally so in control, and yet…look at him now.

Mentally, I shook off the fascination. Any unwelcome spark flickering inside me right now was just…hormones, chemistry—that’s it. Or maybe it was a survival thing, like Stockholm syndrome. Hell, I was probably losing my mind or something.

His behavior should be a cold splash of water to extinguish this flame.

It was.

Would be.

I would be sure of it.

“Which option will it be, Ivy?” His gaze roamed over my face. “Last chance before I make the decision for you.”