Caught for Christmas (Stripped 3.50)

Blue sighs. “Are you sure about this? We’d get in serious trouble if Ivan finds out.”

Well, that’s a surprise. And a relief. Ivan will be mad if they touch me? I hadn’t figured he’d care, but I’ll use any excuse to get out of this now.

West shakes his head, firm. “I’m handling this my way.”

There’s a long pause while Blue considers me. “You know I owe you one,” he says finally. “Or two or three.”

My heart sinks. Any hope I had dies a quick death. He’s going to let this happen.

West smiles faintly. “That’s because you’re a crazy fucker. Always getting yourself into trouble.”

“And you have my back every fucking time.”

“Yeah,” West says, voice soft. “And you have mine.”

The moment would be touching if I wasn’t terrified of what they were going to do to me. “I’m sorry,” I burst out. “I got—I got in over my head with something. I wasn’t going to take a lot. I would have put it back.”

That’s only kind of a lie. I had some vague plans to send the money back, but it would have taken me forever to earn that much.

Blue barely spares me a glance. “Do you want me to stick around?”

West laughs. “Like the old days? You always did like to watch.”

“Not anymore. Not since Hannah. Speaking of which, she’d kick my ass if she found out I let you do this. She’d kick your ass too.”

“I don’t doubt it,” West says, but he doesn’t sound concerned. “Give her my best.”

“Will do.”

Then Blue hands something over to West—a big white paper bag—and turns to leave. Just like any ordinary day, they’re nodding their goodbyes and turning away. As if I’m not tied up here.

“No, wait. Don’t leave me here.” I’m desperate enough to press any advantage. “Hannah would hate this. It isn’t right. She’ll find out and she’ll—”

Blue just shakes his head, waving away my plea. “Don’t look at me. I wanted to do a lot worse than he’s planning.”

That shuts me up quick. Then he’s gone up the stairs, leaving me alone with West and whatever he’s got in that white paper bag.

Chapter Eight

He sets the bag down on the desk with a small but solid thud. It has weight, whatever is inside. I’ve seen a lot in eighteen years, and my mind can imagine horrible things.

Whips, chains.

Chemicals to wipe away any trace of blood.

What can I say? My parents know some unsavory people.

But when he cracks open the bag, just a smidge, I know it’s something else entirely. It doesn’t smell like ammonia or chlorine. It smells like garlic and onions and butter. The inside of the bag is lined with foil—I can see that from here. That must be how it kept those delicious smells inside. Now that he’s opened the top, the savory scent of fresh bread and melted cheese fill the basement.

My mouth waters. Is this how he’s going to break me down? I have visions of him eating in front of me, bite after bite, never letting me have a taste. Torture. “What are you going to do with that?”

He looks amused now. “You are the least trusting person I know.” His smile fades. “There’s probably a good reason for that.”

My stomach grumbles. Loudly. I can’t help but blush. It’s embarrassing to be in this position—tied up and so obviously starving. “Maybe I would be more trusting if you told me what you planned to do with me.”

He turns to rifle through the bag, taking out black plastic containers and foi

l-wrapped packages. There are utensils and a couple bottles of water. It’s like a romantic picnic—except I’m tied up and he’s holding my life in his hands.