4. Give me a kiss : What?

Thea Monroe

He moved, carrying me as easily as if I weighed nothing, striding over the broken glass, my feet instinctively twisting to avoid the sharp edges. He walked towards the wall, the ornate paneling seeming to stretch endlessly before us. And then, impossibly, a section of it shifted, groaning softly as it swung inwards, revealing not just a doorway, but a hidden passage, bathed in the inviting glow of firelight.

A secret door. Of course, there was a secret door. Why wouldn’t there be? This whole night was rapidly devolving into a surreal fever dream.

He carried me through the opening, and suddenly, I was in another world. Or at least, another room. A small library unfolded before me, intimate and warm despite the inherent strangeness of its clandestine location. Bookshelves lined the walls, reaching towards the high, vaulted ceiling, crammed with what looked like ancient scrolls and leather-bound tomes. The air smelled of old paper and woodsmoke, a comforting scent that clashed sharply with the underlying tension of the situation. A large, plush couch sat in front of a roaring fireplace, casting flickering shadows across the room.

Without acknowledging my continued, though now somewhat muted, protests, he carried me towards the couch and gently lowered me down, his hands lingering for a moment longer than strictly necessary on my waist before sliding away.

“Stay put,” he commanded, his voice softer now, almost… gentle. It was unnerving. This whiplash between veiled threat and unexpected gentleness was designed, I was sure, to keep me off balance. And it was working.

I huffed, crossing my arms defensively over my chest, the movement pulling at the fabric of my dress, which, in retrospect, was woefully inadequate for clandestine missions in secret libraries.

I watched as he moved further into the room, disappearing between the towering bookshelves, swallowed by the deeper shadows beyond the firelight’s reach. For a moment, I was alone, the flickering candlelight casting long, dancing shadows around the room, illuminating titles in languages I didn’t recognize and symbols that looked vaguely… hieroglyphic?

The silence returned, but it was different now. Here, in this hidden sanctuary, the tension felt less overtly threatening, more… watchful. The crackling of the fire became the dominant sound, punctuated by the occasional rustle of unseen paper. Minutes stretched, each tick of silence amplifying the questions swirling in my mind. Who was this man? What was this place? What revenge plot movie had I stumbled upon? And most importantly, what was he going to do with me?

Just as the unease began to tip into outright panic, the shadows at the far end of the library shifted, and he reappeared, not with a weapon, as my increasingly frantic imagination had conjured, but with a small wooden bucket and a familiar-looking first aid kit.

He rolled up the sleeves of his dark golden tunic – and that’s when I saw them. Tattoos. Strange, intricate tattoos that snaked around his wrists and forearms. They looked like hieroglyphs, twisting symbols that seemed to writhe in the firelight. And then there were the scorpions. Two large scorpions, one on each arm, were positioned just above his elbows. They weren't just drawn on, they looked… dimensional, almost alive, their segmented bodies and menacing pincers rendered with an unsettling realism that made the hairs on my arms stand on end. They looked like they could crawl right off his skin.

He knelt before me, placing the bucket and the first aid kit on the small table beside the couch. My cheeks flushed crimson, not just from the awkward proximity, but from the sudden, unavoidable awareness of my own… state of undress.

My dress was pretty long, but because of the slits at the sides, it had slipped from my thighs even further as I sat down. It barely covered anything except the place between my legs. My lace panties, definitely not designed for hostage situations, were probably offering a rather… comprehensive view of my most private part, which was covered by the silken fabric in the middle, threateningly exposing my underwear.

And my legs. Smooth, bare legs, stretched out in front of him, undeniably vulnerable, undeniably… there. Sitting here, in front of this masked, tattooed enigma, half-naked and bleeding in his secret library, I felt a strange mix of fear, mortification, and a disconcerting, unfamiliar flutter in the pit of my stomach. This definitely wasn’t how I’d envisioned my evening unfolding.

My ideal evening usually involves Netflix, ice cream, and maybe, maybe, putting on actual pants. Hostage situations were distinctly not on the agenda.

“I don’t think…” I began, my voice a squeaky whisper, trying to salvage some dignity from this sartorial and situational disaster. But my eloquent protest was cut short as he took my leg in his hand. Yes, my leg. In his hand! To inspect the minuscule cut on my skin. With gentle fingers. Gentle fingers that were somehow making the situation even weirder and, dare I say, slightly… tingly?

He poked and prodded with a surprising delicacy, and then, a sharp hiss echoed through the room. It was me. I hissed. Not him. Though, honestly, at this point, I wouldn't have been surprised if he hissed just to add to the general air of bizarre theatre. He’d just removed a tiny shard of glass – the culprit of my minor dramatic injury.

His mask, which was thankfully not a creepy clown mask but a jackal (small victories!), lifted slightly as he seemed to react to the sound of my pain. “Did that hurt, amor?”

Amor? Did he just call me amor? In the middle of this hostage-adjacent scenario? Was this some sort of weird Stockholm Syndrome foreplay? Because if so, I was pretty sure I needed a pamphlet or at least a YouTube tutorial on how to navigate this.

Blinking rapidly, trying to process the ‘amor’ bomb, I swallowed a lump in my throat that felt suspiciously like a combination of panic and… something else. Something I wasn’t quite ready to unpack. I opted for a simple, dignified nod. Dignified, considering my current state.

“Just a scratch. You will live,” he said, his voice a low rumble that somehow managed to be both threatening and… amused? It was like he was enjoying this whole bizarre situation a little too much. And honestly, who could blame him? It was definitely more exciting than lukewarm punch and awkward cringe small talk.

Taking another deep breath, I focused on calming the internal zoo animals currently stampeding through my nervous system. He, meanwhile, was diligently disinfecting the wound, dabbing with antiseptic and cotton balls like he actually knew what he was doing. Which, honestly, was a bit of a surprise. I’d half expected him to just slap a dirty bandage on it and get back to… threatening me with all the secret revenge talk again, with a mission - Zip her lips for eternity. She will tell everyone my evil plans!

He worked very quietly, the only sound being his breathing. And mine, which was probably sounding like a hyperventilating chihuahua. It was strange, surreal even, to be here with him, sitting so close to him, listening to his steady heartbeat as he cleaned my minuscule wound. Careful and slow. It was… oddly intimate.

Despite the whole hostage vibe, and the near-nudity situation, and the general air of impending doom, there was a tiny, illogical part of me that was actually… relieved?

He could see me bleeding (however dramatically), but at least he couldn’t properly see me. Even though he knew my name (because I admitted that part to him), at least he didn’t really know how I looked because of the mask. At least that way, in some bizarre, twisted way, I could still feel some shred of safety about myself. Or as safe as one can feel when half-naked in a secret library with a masked man calling you ‘amor’.

Once the wound was bandaged neatly – surprisingly neatly, I had to admit – he reached for a jar that contained some cream. Some sort of fancy-looking cream, probably imported from some exotic goat milk farm in the Himalayas. He applied it gently to my leg, and my heart took that as its cue to stage a full-blown drum solo. It pounded harder the second his hand brushed my knee.

“There. That should help,” he said, capping the fancy cream and placing it back in the bucket.

My eyes widened slightly. His hand lingered near my thigh – near the very top of my thigh, I might add. Feeling the warmth emanating from him, even through the fabric of my traitorous dress. He noticed my gaze, the silent question in my eyes that screamed, “Dude, personal space, please!”, but he didn’t move away. He just continued to stare at my leg. Or maybe through my leg, into the very depths of my soul. It was hard to tell with the whole mask thing.

Thank you,” I whispered, my voice shaking just a little bit. Maybe a lot a bit.

A dark chuckle resonated throughout the library, bouncing off the towering bookshelves and probably disturbing some very important-looking ancient books of wisdom.

“Don’t bother. We still haven’t finished our discussion about my secrets,” he reminded me, the muzzle and golden eyes of his mask staring intensely at me. I bit my lip, suddenly feeling very, very small and very, very exposed.

“What do you want? I promise that I won’t tell anyone,” I pleaded, desperately trying to appeal to his… kidnapper's morality? Hostage etiquette? I was grasping at straws here, trying to get him to trust me, a complete stranger he’d just… acquired today.

“And how can you guarantee that? When I let you walk out of this door, you will run off to spill them all to the other guests. Especially your cousin. How can you prove that you’re trustworthy?”

Yeah, I would probably spill the beans to Casey. Not.

“How can I prove it? I can do anything.”

Brilliant, past me. Absolutely brilliant. Why not just hand him a blank check and say, "Here, take my life savings, my firstborn child, and my Netflix password if you want?"

His dark chuckle resonated again, even deeper this time. “Anything?”

I nodded, feeling a cold dread seep into my bones. The longer he stared at me, the faster I felt like I’d just made a deal with the actual devil. Promising ‘anything’ could literally be anything. My stomach dropped faster than my dress slits.

His touch on my thigh – yes, he was still touching my thigh! – made me snap my eyes back to his hand. I felt him lean closer, until I could see the half of his face not hidden by the mask. Lips stretched into a smile. A smile that was somehow both intriguing and utterly terrifying.

“You can give me a kiss.”

What?

My brain short-circuited. Kiss? Did he just say… kiss? I stared at him, frozen in place, my mind a blank canvas upon which the word ‘KISS’ was flashing in giant, neon letters.

“That way, we can start the negotiations. I want a kiss.”

A kiss? Is he serious? Was this some sort of power play? A bizarre test of… what? My willingness to be kissed by a masked stranger in exchange for freedom? The absurdity of it all was almost… comical. Almost.

“Why?” It was the only word I could manage, my voice barely above a whisper.

He shrugged his wide shoulders, a casual, almost bored gesture that completely contradicted the intensity in his jackal golden eyes. “I give you a choice. A kiss, or I don’t let you leave.”

Right. Like choosing between being hit by a bus or being run over by a slightly smaller, yet equally unpleasant, garbage truck

What. Did. He. Just. Say? He couldn’t really mean… could he? This wasn’t some bad romance novel, was it? Was I trapped in a cheesy paperback thriller where the villain demands a kiss as payment for… not being villainous anymore?

“I don’t… I don’t understand. Why can’t you just trust me? Why a kiss?” My voice was a jumbled mess of confusion and disbelief.

“It’s simple. I have already told you why.” He leaned back slightly, studying me, his masked face unreadable.

I gaped at him, my mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. “No. No. I don’t believe that. There has to be something else that you’d rather do instead.” Surely, there was something else he’d prefer. Like, I don’t know, world domination? Stockpiling rare stamps? Anything that didn’t involve awkward hostage-kiss negotiations.

He tilted his head to the side, like he was actually considering my ridiculous suggestion. Like he was genuinely raising his masked eyebrows at me. “Like what?” He finally asked, his voice laced with a hint of amusement that did absolutely nothing to calm my rapidly escalating panic.

I shook my head. I had no idea. My brain was officially fried. Maybe he thought this was all some elaborate joke? A twisted prank to make fun of me later at his masked villain convention? “Hey, remember that time I made that girl kiss me to let her go? Classic!” Yeah, hilarious. Real knee-slapper.

Then, those sinful lips, the ones currently demanding a kiss from my bewildered face, curled into a grin. It was a grin that promised mischief and possibly mayhem. “Are you scared, little dove?”

Scared? Okay, maybe a little. Terrified? Let’s go with ‘artistically apprehensive’. Trying to create some semblance of personal space, I instinctively leaned back on the couch, hoping to create some kind of buffer zone between me and the kiss-demanding enigma. Futile, I discovered, as he stood up in one swift, unsettlingly graceful movement.

He stepped between my legs, placing his hands on the couch around my head, effectively trapping me in a velvet-upholstered prison of impending lip contact.

My escape route was officially blocked. It was like being cornered by a particularly persistent salesperson, but instead of pushing a timeshare, he was pushing for… well, you know.

“Just a simple kiss. Then you can go,” he purred, the sound of his voice sending a jolt of something that felt suspiciously like electricity straight down my spine. Electricity laced with intrigue? Maybe even… anticipation? Whoa, brain, rein it in! This is not a meet-cute! This is a hostage situation with a bizarre kissing clause! “I promise it will be worth it.”

Oh, he promised it would be worth it? Based on what metric of ‘worth’? The thrill of the unexpected? The adrenaline rush of kissing a masked stranger? The bizarre and slightly terrifying novelty of the whole situation?

Before I could even begin to formulate a witty, sarcastic, or even remotely coherent response, before I could even stammer out another confused “But WHY?”, his hand, with unnerving speed, yanked off my mask. Apparently, reciprocal mask removal etiquette was not part of these ‘negotiations’.

My mouth, already agape in astonishment, probably resembled a startled carp, but for a different reason now. Because suddenly, his soft lips were covering mine. The world tilted. My senses went into overdrive. The smell of leather and something subtly minty, like expensive toothpaste mixed with danger, invaded my nostrils with every breath. I inhaled deeply, a reflex action in the face of the completely unexpected.

His fingers curled into the hair at the nape of my neck, pulling me closer against him. My brain was still sputtering, trying to catch up with the reality of the situation. I was stunned, utterly unable to breathe, as the unfamiliar sensations of his kiss washed over me. This couldn’t be happening. What was I doing?! Why was I kissing him back? But somehow, amidst the swirling confusion and the lingering threat of ‘hostage situation’, there was… something else. Something unexpected.

My nails, acting entirely independently of my conscious thought, latched onto his expensive tunic, scraping them against the gems attached to his Godly attire.

I whimpered, a tiny, involuntary sound, against his lips when his tongue gently parted mine. Oh. Oh, dear. This was escalating. And possibly, just possibly, the ‘worth it’ he promised wasn’t entirely… fabricated. But before we could explore the depths of this bizarre, forced-kiss-turned-potentially-something-else, we heard voices in the distance, calling his name. Reality, in the form of approaching footsteps and shouted syllables, came crashing back into the room, the sounds muffled behind the wall of the library chamber.

With a harsh, ragged breath, he pulled away. “Jesus Christ,” he muttered, dragging his lips from mine.

He actually seemed to regret pulling away. For a split second, I could see a flicker of… something… in those golden jackal eyes. But then, just as quickly, he stood to his full height, straightening his impeccably tailored outfit where my fingernails had clearly left some very un-villainous wrinkles.

And honestly, it wasn't just the words; it was the tone. He sounded… annoyed? Frustrated? Like he’d been interrupted mid-sentence by a particularly persistent telemarketer.

Staring down at me, chest still heaving with uneven breaths – just like mine, I noticed with a weird little flutter of… something – he was all towering God of death again.

I, on the other hand, still sat there, completely numb from the shock of what had just occurred. My lips were still tingling, practically humming with the aftershock of his kiss. And since I was bare-faced without a mask (villain lairs are notoriously bad for breathable air, apparently), I probably looked like a hot mess. Lipstick, undoubtedly, smeared halfway to my chin. Fantastic. Just fantastic.

He rubbed his lips, those lips that had just been… well, you know. He just kept staring at me, that intense jackal gaze fixed, as the voices outside the library grew louder, closer.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered again, under his breath this time, almost like he was talking to himself.

He turned around, rolled his stiff shoulders, and suddenly, the whole mood shifted. The… connection? The spark? Whatever that bizarre moment had been, it was gone. Poof. Just like that. He was all business now. All villainous composure. And I was… well, I was just sitting there, feeling ridiculously insecure.

Suddenly self-conscious, I instinctively put my arms around myself, feeling small and exposed. I watched him go to the door, all sharp angles and expensive tailoring, then – just as he was about to exit – he stopped. Turned that jackal face over his shoulder, giving me one last, lingering glance.

“Wait until I leave with them, then you can come out,” he said, voice low, almost… husky? And then, with a completely different tone, he added, “And… wipe your pretty face.” There’s a slight hint of a smirk in his voice.

Right. Of course. The smeared lipstick. Mortification level: maximum.

Almost missing the part where he called me pretty, I still had no words. My brain was still buffering. So, I just nodded, a small, jerky movement.

He stood there a second longer, jaw clenched, those jackal eyes still holding mine for a beat too long. It was like he was trying to memorize my face in his memory. Then, finally, he left the room, closing the door shut behind him with a soft, almost… reluctant click.

Leaving me alone. Alone with the silence of the library, the lingering tingle on my lips, and absolutely zero explanation for what had just happened. No reassurance that he wouldn’t, you know, do it again. No apology for the forced kiss. No… anything. Just… silence. And smeared lipstick.

I hope so. I really hope he’ll leave me alone now. My brain was officially malfunctioning. Error: Logic Not Found. System Overload. I needed to find Casey. My bubbly, beautiful best friend who is probably panicking about my disappearance.

Rummaging in my small purse, I dig out my phone and chuckle when I finally unlock it, seeing all the missed notifications from her because of the silent mode.

17 missed calls

20 text messages

Yeah, I couldn’t face another moment in this library, not with the phantom sensation of those lips still buzzing on mine. No way.

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