Hitched and Hunted. Paula Graves

led the way downstairs, his head high and his back straight. Mariah took strength from the sight of him moving slowly, steadily down the steps in front of her, a solid wall to stop her fall if she should lose her step.

      The basement was as dark and fetid as she’d feared, but she could feel Jake’s warmth just in front of her, and some of her panic eased.

      Victor turned on the light, another grimy bare bulb hanging from a wire overhead. Mariah blinked against the sudden illumination, her eyes adjusting until she saw that the basement was somehow even more depressing and dank than she’d imagined.

      Victor directed them to the far wall, where water pipes curved along the grubby stone foundation. Jake muttered a low curse. “Just had these lying around?”

      Peering around Jake, Mariah saw what he’d spotted—a set of handcuffs attached by one cuff to the pipe.

      “I like to be prepared.” Victor waved toward the rickety-looking bench in front of the handcuffs. “Sit down, Jake. Mariah, I believe you’ve had some experience with handcuffs. Please put them on your husband.” He spat out the last word with pure contempt.

      The paralyzing fear that had gripped her the moment he walked into the tent earlier that day had finally begun to fade, replaced with a simmering rage that twisted her gut into hard, fiery knots. Give me a chance to stop you, she thought. Just one chance.

      “Would you rather be in the cuffs?” Victor picked up a pair of rusty wire cutters and motioned for her to come to him with the barrel of his gun. “That can be arranged.”