Vanquish (Deliver 2)

Fire spread over her body, lighting up her nerves and burning her throat. “I'm tied down, dammit. I didn't have a choice.” She didn't have a choice to like it? Okay, not a whip-smart response. “Untie me.” She glared at him through blurry eyes. “Or do you plan on raping me again?”

“Maybe.” He winked. “If you beg.”

The fuck she would. “Is your name really Van?”

His fingers caressed a path around the outer swell of her breast, over her ribs and hip, and slipped between the raw skin of her lower lips. “My mother named me Van Quiso.” He shoved two fingers in her opening and curled them, coaxing her muscles to clench. “You'll refer to me as Master.” His timbre was a velvet sheath swaddling an obnoxious order.

He shifted down her body, hovering like a dark mountain of dread, and wedged his massive shoulders between her thighs.

Her heart rammed against her ribs in a violent protest. Oh God, she never wanted anyone down there. Not after Brent. It was her biggest shame, her eternal regret. “Please, don't. You don't understand.”

He bared his teeth, grinning, and bit down on her clit. White-hot pain pierced through her pussy in concentrated heat. She cried out as his teeth continued to pierce and yank the sensitive nub, his tongue flicking back and forth as swiftly as his thrusting fingers.

She screamed thick, sobbing shrills of agony. Hot tears rolled down her face, her cries garbled and raw. He released her, kissing the sore flesh. The tenderness only made her cry harder.

She was on display, naked and hurting, weak and defenseless. And her future would only get worse. What would happen to her without her routine, trapped in some unknown location, at the center of a madman's attention?

For two years, she'd hidden herself in the darkness of her self-pity. She wasn't living. She was barely surviving. The idea of returning to her house was as grim as staying here, with him. Was this the beginning of a new misery, where her days were consumed by a rapist who made her come? The thought trembled through her. That was a whole different kind of sick.

As the edge of pain dimmed, the pinch of something else took hold, a realization as spiteful and psychotic as the monster before her. It hardened her spine and sharpened her focus.

He might've had the upper hand, but he couldn't control the mess in her mind. If he planned to keep her around, he'd damned well better be prepared. She was going to make his life a living hell.

He reached for the buckles around her ankles. “You ready?”

She was ready, for what she had no idea. She'd been beaten, drugged, taken from her house, and raped. She was already fucked in the head, her dignity long gone, and now she was backed into a corner she couldn't escape. She had nothing to lose.

She raised her chin and met his eyes. “Yes.”

The shackles around Amber's ankles fell away. She yanked her legs together, knocking her knees, and the sudden movement sent stabbing pain through her hips. But it was anger—the sudden violence of helpless fury—that sharpened every nerve-ending in her body.

Van watched her from beneath hooded eyes and reached for her wrists. “You're an unforgettable fuck, Amber.”

She ground her molars, her voice low and harsh. “And you're a fucking rapist.”

His eyebrows pinched together. “You're pissed, but you went over the edge and exploded around my dick.” He freed one arm and murmured, “You needed that.”

The conversation was surreal, as if they weren't discussing an event she would relive and mourn every day for the rest of her life, however short that might be.

The final shackle dropped, and blood tingled through her hands. She scrambled toward the edge of the bed, but he grabbed her ankles, and dragged her back, wrestling her to sit sideways in his lap.

She fought him, slapping and snarling, teeth bared, her muscles screaming with venom. But amidst her struggles slithered the chill of helplessness. If she managed to overpower him, to outsmart him, to escape, where would she run? Outside?

Was she seriously trying to convince herself that a naked cuddle with a rapist was less scary than whatever waited beyond the front door?

He took advantage of her hesitation, his nudity slipping around her and his hands controlling her legs until she straddled his lap, sitting chest to chest, his arms locked around her back. Hot skin pressed against hers, slick and hard and entirely too close. She shoved against the twitching muscles on his chest, but his embrace was implacable, a steel cage of limbs.

His lips brushed the sensitive spot beneath her ear, and he breathed deeply, smelling her.

She shivered. She needed clothes, a shower, her routine, and...courage. Her fingernails dug into his back as she scanned the clutter strewn throughout the room. There, her robe, tossed over her duffel bags on the floor in the corner. The rest of the room... Oh my God.

A beer bottle sat on the dresser. Dirty socks piled beside the bed as if he'd just kicked them off and left them there. Two hangers hung on the closet doorknob. The nightstand... Wait. What?

Her aquarium sat against the far wall, filled with the broken fragments of her life. What did he intend to do with it? Would he torture her by destroying them beyond recognition? Would he be so cruel? She sat taller on his lap, her breasts dragging unnervingly against his chest, her voice cracking. “Why is that here?”

The gentle tiptoe of his fingertips along her arms aroused unnerving sensations over her skin. He nuzzled her neck. “It means something to you.”

A lump swelled in her throat. It was just a career, but it signified the beginning and end of a normal life. She stared through blurry eyes at the one possession she would've lamented leaving behind.

As heartless and forceful as he was, nothing cruel lingered in his expression now. He studied her with daunting tenderness and an innocent sort of curiosity, and she felt knocked off balance. And naked, which had nothing to do with her lack of clothing. What if he threw the keepsakes away? Or used them against her? “It's just some broken memorabilia.”

He held her in place as he massaged the soreness from her wrist. “It was the only sentimental belonging in your house, and you had it displayed.” His touch moved over her wrists, gentle and attentive. “You liked to look at it, which tells me someone else destroyed it. Who?”

An angry pulse throbbed behind her eyes. Brent had taken a sledgehammer to everything that mattered to her. Except her career. That was on her. But she wasn't about to tell Van any of that. He didn't know about her ex-husband, and she couldn't afford to expose any more of herself beneath his perceptive eyes. So she decided on stubborn silence.

His hands moved to her calves and ankles, kneading the muscles, coaxing circulation, and easing her stiffness. She didn't trust his tenderness for a second, and her vulnerability escalated with each soothing caress.

He seemed to be distracted with his hands busy on her legs. She could slip off his lap and run.

And run where? The closet? Or she could endure his touch and try to figure him out. “What are you doing?”

“I got carried away. I never checked the cuffs, and they were too tight.” His eyes were fixed on his fingers, but she sensed his attention was singularly focused on her. On her sha

llow breaths, the prickles bumping up her flesh. On what she might say next.

His profile was so painfully striking as he bowed his head, lips parted, face soft with affection. Any woman would've fallen into his bed at the crook of his finger. Hell, she'd offered the night she'd met him, and didn't that just dig under her skin? “You turned me down; then you returned and took me by force. Are you a serial rapist? A stalker? A murderer?” She trembled to put the space of the room between them but forced her eyes to his and whispered, “What are you?”

Something slipped over his expression, a menacing shield that turned his jaw to stone. He gripped her waist and set her on her feet, pushing her away. His elbows dropped to his knees as he watched her from beneath sharp brows, eyes creased in searing slits, voice quiet. “I'm the heir of torment, Amber.”

She stepped back, hands shielding her groin and breasts.

He rose and held out his arms, unabashedly nude. “I'm the slippery footprints in your carpet. The creaking floor that steals air from your lungs. The hand that holds the gun.” He paced through the room, snagging a pair of jeans from the floor, and met her eyes. “I'm the inescapable curse that caught you when you opened your door.”

A shiver rippled through her and settled into her bones. Not a hint of arrogance in his words. Just the steady monotone of unresisting acceptance. As if he'd rehearsed that creepy speech or had at least given it a lot of thought.

She darted for her robe, shrugged it on, and turned to face him with a semblance of courage now that she was covered. “You don't have to be those things.” She pushed back her shoulders and gave him a practiced response of her own. “You could be the nemesis of torment.”

He pulled on the jeans, regarding her with an unreadable expression. “Is that what Dr. Michaels told you? Some cockamamie horseshit about confronting fear with its adversary, courage?”