Taken Hostage

by Hutchins, Hollie

  “We need to leave.” I declared, standing up abruptly. My legs were like jelly, and also sticky. Oh shit. We didn’t use a condom. Uuh… We’ll pick up a morning-after pill while on the run.

  “We?” He asked. Like an asshole. Fuck that guy, He was going to continue, but whatever he said would have just pissed me off. So I had to cut him off immediately.

  “Shut UP!” I snarled at him, my hand moving to slap him across the face as hard as I possibly could. I don’t even care if it hurts. “I was supposed to kill you.”

  “You say that like I didn’t already know that.” He mumbled like a pouty child. Which, was weird seeing as he was nude and covered in evidence that we had just had sex.

  It was actually genuinely endearing enough for me to calm down as I said the next thing I had to say. “My parents are seekers and have been tracking you. We need to leave as soon as possible.”

  His face transformed into a pained grimace. “What do you think of Illinois? I know you always wanted to go to Chicago.” He offered, shrugging nonchalantly. As if, like usual, he didn’t care one way or another.

  Did he remember? I mean, I only mentioned it once. And we were both pretty drunk at the time. "Let's do it!" I declared excitedly. “But we need to stop at the store and pick up some-”

  “Oh yeah, Dragonlings are really rare because they can only impregnate a fellow Dragonling. So, you don’t really have to worry about pregnancy or anything.” He comforted. At least, it was an attempt to comfort me. He sounded truthful though. So that was good.

  “Good. One more thing off my mind.” I never did want kids anyway and I don’t really think that point of view is going to change any time in the future. Besides, if it does, we can always adopt. “So we should go, like, now.”

  “Let me put my stuff in the car, Babe.” I usually hated it when he used that pet name. But I didn’t right now. Really.

  We can talk in the car. Talk about us… about the future… about who we are and who we want to be…

  I found some of his clothes that were close to my size and put them on, before rushing us both to the car. The sooner we leave, the better chances of escaping. And the safer we will be.

  Chapter 9

  “So…” He started, as we drove on our new trip to Chicago. A place where the two of us can be happy. We can be who we are and… Who are we though?

  “So…” I echoed, not knowing how to reply. Not knowing what I want to say.

  “I’m sorry about what I said.” He blurted out. It was strange. He sounded genuinely remorseful.

  “No, don’t be.” I stared at my hands as I spoke. “You were right. I was acting crazy and not being myself at all. I needed to hear it from someone for me to actually hear and listen to it, you know?”

  He huffed a laugh. "Yeah, but it's not like you acted any more normal afterward." He wriggled his eyebrows playfully. Pervert. “Not that I mind it. At all.”

  I couldn’t help but laugh. My entire body shook with my laughter, tears leaking from my eyes. Only my Tom-Cat can immediately let hurts and old emotional scars just roll off his back the way he did. And then joke about something like that. It didn’t seem as big or as impossible to deal with anymore and, you know what, that was most likely the entire point of his whole dumb act.

  “That’s the Genie I know!” He seemed so proud of himself.

  “I’m in love with you, you know.” I blurted out, shocking no one more than myself. I never thought I would love him. And I never even considered that I would say it out loud, even if I did.

  As I grabbed onto the seat to protect myself, I whimpered. Okay, I was wrong. From the way his hand on the steering wheel twitched and made the car swerve in a dangerous direction, I clearly wasn't the most shocked person in this development.

  “What the fuck, Jenna?!” He shouted at me, after parking in a place where we could calm down. “Do you not get the concept of ‘good timing’.”

  “Don’t insult my adorable spontaneity, you… you… a totally overrated lightweight clown without two brain cells to rub together!” I couldn’t really think of a good enough insult, my cheeks flushing.

  “Hey! You are the lightweight.” He snapped, rather offended by the insinuation. Weird that that’s what he’s annoyed about, but whatever. “Remember when you got drunk over a quarter glass of wine.”

  “Don’t bring that up!” I snapped, cheeks flushing a dark red.

  He smirked at me after a moment. Ugh. That smug glance in his eyes. I hate it so much. “You love me. You want to kiss me. You get jealous when I flirt with other girls. You want to daaate me.”

  I growled in annoyance. But he didn’t listen, he kept going on and teasing me. Well, two can play at that game! At least that was my excuse for pulling him down to me by his tie and slamming my lips against his once again. “Don’t act like you don’t want me just as much!” I bluffed.

  “You’re right. I’ve been in love with you since forever babe, you have no idea what it’s like to be in such close proximity to you and still not have what I want and all I really want is you.” He purred in my ear, causing my cheeks to flush a dark red.

  I couldn't help myself once again, and we ended up attacking each other all over again. "You're mine." I hissed in his ear, once we were done, our sweaty bodies cuddling into each other.

  “It’s not like I’m gonna argue against that, Babe. No sane man would.” He smirked playfully. “Not that any sane man would fall for you.” He teased.

  “Ugh! You dick.” There wasn’t any real heat behind my words or the punch I threw at him lazily. I was too content at the moment. “If no sane man would fall for me, what does that make you.”

  “Insane, probably…. But all man.” He says this with this flirtatious growl that, to my mortification, made me blush. How? I mean, he’s such a dork. How is he so handsome and amazing and… Ugh!

  "I hate you," I said, as seriously as ever. Which, isn’t that seriously, if I’m being honest.

  “Yeah, right.” He replied, smirking to himself. “You love me.”

  I huffed and rolled my eyes. “What’re we… gonna do?”

  "Go to Chicago! Obviously." He declared as if that was all the answer either of us ever needed. Dumbass.

  “What will we do in Chicago?” I wasn’t in the mood for him to avoid anything. I needed to hear the truth from his lips. I needed a plan. I needed to know that I’m not just going to follow him to the ends of the earth without even a plan of action.

  The worst thing about that is I know I would. I would follow him there if that's what I needed to do. If all I had with him was hollow promises, shallow dreams, and unsure futures, I would still follow him. And it scares me that all it would take is a soft word, and I would give up my life.

  I basically did. Gave up my family for him.

  Oh god. I gave up the thing I’ve wanted since we were children just for him. How do I-

  “We’ll figure something out. You always know what to do.” His voice was so soft, so soothing. And all of a sudden, I believed him. He trusted me and for whatever reason, I totally believed every word that poured out of his lips. “I trust you with my very soul. Just trust me with this.”

  I melted at his words. How did he become so smooth in the past month? I don’t even get it! "L-Let's go, then." I took his hand. It was so soft and so large. Comforting, it wrapped around my own hands.

  Epilogue

  It’s been years since that whole debacle. When I was too silly and shortsighted to see past my own face. When I almost lost the chance to have what I always needed, in exchange for what I thought I should have wanted.

  Thomas is my husband now. We go by the last name Moxie. It fits. And I slapped him when he suggested we go by Spitfire so hard I almost knocked his teeth out.

  We don’t have any kids, but I don’t need any. We go and help out at an orphanage sometimes, give the kids a happier past then I would’ve had without my Tom-Cat. The past that I might not have thought I wanted, but now knew I
always needed.

  “Babe.” He pressed a soft kiss to my lips, smiling down at him with those same twinkling eyes that enraptured me all those years ago. His lips were quirked up in amusement. “What’re you thinking about, Honeybunch?” His voice was teasing, sickeningly sweet as he used the pet name that he knew I hated.

  Neither of us was that sappy. But we liked getting on each other's nerves with the sappiest of pet names. Everyone else just thought we were one of those grossly sappy couples.

  “Just about how much I love you, Babycakes.” I teased back, in the same sickeningly sweet manner. It was all worth it to watch his nose scrunch up in disgust at the overload of sugary sweetness. He might actually hate his pet name more than I hate mine.

  “Geee-niie.” He whined childishly. “Don’t call me that. It makes me sound… unmanly. I have my ego to think of you know?”

  “You can shapeshift into an eight foot tall monstrous scaly horned beast with razor claws and shark-like teeth.” I drawled, rolling my eyes at his pout. Thirty years old and still as whiny as he was when he was eight! “Your manly-ego can deal with it.”

  “I am a horned beast without needing to transform.” He purred, wriggling his eyebrows suggestively. This fucking dork. I knew he just couldn’t help himself. It was a reflex at this point. If I’m being honest, I really have to admit it; I definitely gave him the ammo for that one. On the other hand…. Really? Can he never focus without thinking of sex? Of course, I’m no better, but at least I can pretend to be better than that!

  “Tch. Really?” I put up a demeanor that I was unamused, even though I was mentally laughing my ass off. What? Don’t judge me! It was funny! What do you want from me? “We have work to do you loser.”

  He huffed in a laugh before getting up. He knew I thought it was funny because I wasn't slapping him for being overly perverted. “Yeah. Yeah. Who’re we getting today, Babe?”

  “Pair of Seekers. Mid-Twenties. Newlyweds. One a blonde male, the other a ginger girl. Freckles and all. The male is Swedish and the girl is a Scott. Bloodthirsty as they come. Uses their Seeker heritage to excuse their destructive tendencies. Apparently, they came to Chicago to ‘cleanse the city' as a honeymoon activity." I sneered at the idea, mumbling to herself, "the only thing the city needs to be cleansed from is these worthless, brain dead monsters. Can’t even understand the simple facts of life and how killing is wrong. What kind of fucking people even think like that?”

  “Oh, yeah. I love it when you talk dirty like that.” My husband mocked. Dumb Tom-Cat. “Let’s get a move on then, shall we, M’lady?”

  I gave him a kiss and we left our house. This was our day to day life. We fixed what was broken and helped those who couldn’t help themselves. Whether it be from heartless Seekers, or vampires, or Dragonlings… they have to go through us.

  It isn’t all bad. Some wealthy people we have helped send us a stipend. One wealthy couple bought us a house in Chicago – not cheap by any stretch of the imagination.

  Do what you love and the money will follow, I guess.

  And all I have ever really wanted was a family. It took so much to see that I had what I was looking for, all along.

  Looking at the ring my Silly Tom-Cat bought for me, just brought it home.

  That’s what we have made together, a home.

  "Are you coming, Babe?" He shouted, smirking at me from the car. Idiot. We got a shiny new Corvette and he painted it a ghastly color and installed his dumb seat covers. Some things never change.

  “Hold your horses, ya idjit!” I shouted at him as I followed him to the car.

  Ah, now isn’t this absolutely perfect?

  Promised To The Beast

  ~ Bonus Story ~

  A Werewolf Shifter Paranormal Romance

  Shya was young when the profit of the small, West Bengal town of Amalpur foretold her marriage. Then, she moved to America. At school, she sabotaged her grades in an attempt to display rebellion against her betrothal, in an attempt to feel like she had a sliver of control over her future.

  Now, at twenty years old, Shya is a theatre student in college, and an art hobbyist obsessed with painting the man and beast that haunts her dreams. But, she’s ripped away from that life when she’s handed a ticket back to India. At the airport to greet her is Berht, grandson of the prophet who quite possible ruined Shya’s life.

  As they drive from the airport to Amalpur, the reality of the prophecy begins to hit her. Little does Shya know that there is more to her lifelong fiancé than anyone is willing to tell her.

  * * *

  ONE

  Shya was alone in her studio. She stood before a blank canvas, mounted on an easel, clad in tattered, blue, paint-stained overalls atop a shirt so yellow that it nearly glowed against her dark brown skin. Her long, black hair was pulled back into a thick bun atop her head, but strands of it hung loosely around her face, fluttering up as she breathed. Her hand was poised in the air, a paint brush between her worn, artist’s fingers, its bristles coated in peachy paint.

  Shya began to paint. She made a wide arch with her hand, a downwards stroke, dots. She swirled her brush in water and dipped it into pink, brown, black. Before she knew it, it was a man. His hair was dark, shining, reflecting the light from an unseen source. His eyes, shadowed by neat, dark eyebrows, were hazel and bright. His shoulders were wide and bare, muscled and toned. He was beautiful.

  With a sigh, Shya set down her brush and wiped the paint from her hands. She gave the painting one last glance before leaving the room, leaving it to dry.

  There was barely any bare space left on the walls of Shya’s room. Canvases hung on pegs jammed deep into the plaster. Some large, some small, some of nature, some of the city. But more than anything, there were portraits of a man-beast, hung chronologically. The first painting was of a terrible monster. It was like a man, and clothes hung off of it, shredded and ruined. But its mouth was pulled back into a snarl, revealing sharp fangs. The surface of its skin was covered in fur, and its eyes were cruel and cold. But it was still a man.

  The paintings after it were different. They were losing their animalistic features, becoming warmer, more human. She had been dreaming of that creature for months. It haunted her by night and day, floating in her head as she slept, lingering in the corners of her mind in the waking day. It had ever since she was a child. So she had begun painting it. And as beast turned to man and she kept painting, she clung to the notion that she should not have been thinking about—it—at all. Even if it hadn’t been human at first, she knew she shouldn’t have been dreaming of it. She had a man waiting for her in her parents’ home country.

  She thought about the man sometimes. Wondered what he looked like, what his voice sounded like, if he was kind or cruel, if he listened to rock music, if he got water all over the floor when he showered. If he’d like what he found in her.

  Before Shya had even learned to talk, the prophet of her village had foretold her marriage to the man, that they were meant to be. But had never met him, knew nothing of him, and still, her parents maintained that she not break the engagement. They took the prophet’s words as gospel, that if she did break the engagement, there would be dire consequences. Shya took it with a grain of salt. She often speculated that these alleged dire consequences were a scare tactic but nonetheless, she heeded their words.

  Five years later, Shya’s father landed a job in the west. America. First-world country. So he left with the promise of summoning his wife and daughter at the first opportunity. Though working, he put himself through higher education, striving to take his passion and skill as a satellite technologist and let it flourish under the wings of PhDs, to learn the mystery of the stars. When his summons came, many years of saving later, Shya reunited with her father.

  She was older, then. She understood things better. The weight of her future, the fact that she was bound to someone whose name she didn’t even know. There was a spark of defiance in her that thrived in her new environment. The people aroun
d her had bright streaks in their hair, rebellion in their hearts, and hearts on their sleeves. They inspired Shya. She wanted to control her life the way her friends could.

  In high school, she knew she didn’t need to try her best. Her straight-A’s and Harvard admission wouldn’t matter when she was flown back to her small village in India to marry her mystery man. Still, her parents would not be proud at even the notion of Shya scoring anything less than straight-A’s.

  And so, Shya didn’t try. Not for all four years of high school, not even once. By the end of it, her GPA was barely over two-point-oh, and she somehow, miraculously, gained admission to a college in her city where she’d be studying theatre—specifically, theatrical swordplay. Needless to say, her parents weren’t happy. She wasn’t like her father, who pursued knowledge above all, or like her mother, who endeavoured to care for her family. What Shya did know, however, was how to slice internal organs with the use of a two-ring rapier. And in her free time, she painted.

  Over dinner, Shya clasped her hands and shut her eyes as her father said their prayers, ate her mother’s savoury, ethnic cooking, and spoke to the both of them in a strange mix of Bengali—her father’s mother tongue—and Hindi—her mother’s. She couldn’t help but feel that while she upheld these traditions, her heritage, she deserved her freedom. She didn’t deserve to be chained to a man she had never met. She wanted streaks in her hair, rebellion in her heart, and her heart on her sleeve. She didn’t understand why her parents kept pushing their scare tactic. America was home to her. She had grown up here, she spoke its language, had the accent, knew its people.