Hot for Hostage

by Maggie Evans

When my feet touched the foyer floor and Bear hopped down beside me, all four of us froze. The men straightened and quickly shut the door behind them. My eyes narrowed. That wasn’t fishy at all. Like Davian, both of them were dark-haired, well-built, wearing dark suits, and gave nothing away with their expressions. It was kind of spooky. But unlike the hostage who’d wormed his way into my thoughts, these men had blatant wine stains down the fronts of their dress shirts. It didn’t shock me that Davian’s men were day drinkers, but they didn’t need to be slobs about it. “You should really get those under cold water before the wine sets,” I said, trying to be helpful. I had my fair share of experience with stains from culinary school and the shelter. The men only stared back at me blankly, and I adjusted my grip on the banister. “Your shirts,” I clarified, gesturing at the blotches of dark red. “Wine stains aren’t fun to… They aren’t fun to…” I glanced at the stains again—belatedly realizing they looked more like splatters than spills—and my throat tightened. “Oh. Oh.” My stomach churned, and I rested a hand over it as my voice came out strangled. “That’s not wine, is it?”