Vanquish (Deliver 2)

Ah, there were his hands, wrapped around her neck, his fingers a restraint made of flesh and bone. He savored the acceleration of blood pumping through her carotid, the delicate sinews yielding to his will, his grip immovable yet soft and cherishing.

His experiment in surrender over, he moved on autopilot, reclining back and taking her with him. As he wrapped her legs around his waist, she tried to break the kiss, but he was in charge now. His mouth was insistent, his tongue holding hers down. His hands found her ass beneath the towel, and his fingers curled into hard, hot muscle.

No doubt she would fight him. Her muscles would go rigid, her jaw would stiffen, and—

Whoa. Her body liquefied against his chest, her arms folding around his shoulders. Her tongue followed his, and a quiet moan vibrated in her throat.

Fuck him, but her submissiveness was her most powerful compulsion, one that would haunt him and possess him until he owned her body, soul, and tangled mind. He ground his hips against the bared apex of her thighs, dragging her closer with his hands on her hips.

They kissed for a delirious eternity, their breaths fusing in a caress of wet licks over heated flesh. He wanted more, his cock wanted in her, and his groan vocalized his need. He flexed his ass and rocked his erection against his zipper, against her cunt, his jeans too damned itchy and tight.

She wriggled in his lap and sucked on his tongue, seemingly as lost as he was. Until she tensed, silencing their smacking sounds.

No telling where her mind just went. His thoughts floated somewhere between Fuck her now and Don't fuck her up. He let her pull back and grimaced as she shifted on his aching, swollen cock.

Her lips, glistening and swollen, taunted him as she spoke. “What are your plans for Liv and Joshua?”

A sour taste hit the back of his throat. He stalked them because he was sick. Obsessed. Lonely. But more than that, because they had access to a life he wanted. Sweet, round face. Brown curls. Precious. Innocent. His only living blood.

He couldn't admit to Amber how much a relationship with his daughter meant to him, how Livana was the only pure thing that had come from his miserable life. Maybe Amber wouldn't say anything out loud, but he didn't want to see the doubt in her eyes, the glaring rebuttal. You're just like Mr. E. You're not good enough to be a father.

A fission of pain ripped open behind his eyes. “I wasn't going to take them. Or hurt them.” He hated the desperate edge in his voice, the frantic need for her to believe him. He gripped her neck. “I told you I'm out of the slave business.”

“Then what am I?”

What was she? Broken like him but better, brighter, an unexpected discovery, like the gems in her shattered crowns. “The greater half of fucked-up squared.”

She sighed. “I think your math needs some work.” She glanced down at the flat expanse of her tummy where it lay bare beneath the separation of the towel.

The cleft of her pussy pressed so seductively against the ridge of his strained jeans. She ran a hand down her torso, and her shoulders bunched. A frown gripped her face, the only warning he had, before she shoved off his lap and stumbled back.

What the fuck just happened? “What's wrong with you?”

Her face twisted, and she hugged herself. “My stomach hurts.”

He studied her tightening posture, bent spine, and defensive tuck of her arms. “Maybe you need to take a shit.”

She cringed. “You did not just say that.”

He'd bet his right testicle she'd never so much as farted in front of her ex, let alone discussed her bowel movements with him. He shrugged. “A good dump always makes me feel better.”

“You seriously don't have any boundaries.”

Boundaries were for the scared and weak. “At least I'm not constipated. Want a laxative?”

“I'm not—” She stomped a bare foot on the floor four times and squeezed her arms around her abdomen. “You're right. I need to go to the restroom.”

Because he didn't have an iota of desire to watch her shit, he stood outside the closed bathroom door and gave her some privacy—the only privacy he would ever allow her. Hands in his pockets, mind at peace, he marveled at how much warmer the cabin felt with her presence. Someday, she might consider it her home, her safe place, with him. But it would take time to trust her not to hurt herself, to not harm him.

As he waited, that thought began to niggle. Nothing in the bathroom could be used as a weapon, and the door didn't have a lock, but something didn't feel right. She hadn't just asked to use the bathroom. She'd scowled at her body and triggered some thought that had her hugging her belly.

He grabbed the knob and hit the door open with his hip.

She was bent over the toilet, hacking quietly, too softly, as if she'd invented the art of graceful barfing. Even then, he might've blamed his cooking if she hadn't lowered her eyes to the floor and pawed at her hair with anxious hands. If she were truly sick, she would've ignored him, too focused on the pain.

She solidified his suspicion when she opened her mouth. “You trying to poison me?”

Her tone was too inwardly focused, too ashamed. If she thought he'd put something in the food, she would've gone at him with fire in her eyes.

His hands clenched and unclenched. He should've known. She was too fucking thin. “You're a puker.”

She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and said to the floor, “I never asked you to take me.” She looked up and shouted, “Or my fucked-up problems!”

Fuck that. She was his to care for, to revere and keep safe. He didn't care what her problems were. He wouldn't allow her to treat her body this way. “Where is the girl who had enough pride in herself to stand on a stage and invite judgment? I demand more from you.”

“Let me give you a quick lesson on vanity.” She seethed through her teeth. “It's sensitive and shallow. If you overfeed it, you'll make it puke.”

That mouth would get her nowhere. If she was going to behave like a brat, he'd treat her like one. He released a frustrated breath, calming himself, and removed her toothbrush from the drawer. “Brush your teeth.”

She gave him a nasty little glare then did as she was told. She must've been counting in her head, because she muttered “Four” around the foam of toothpaste each time she moved the bristles to a new tooth.

He pinched the bridge of his nose. She was fucking exhausting, and he hadn't even begun the discipline that was coming for her unacceptable behavior.

When she finished rinsing, he yanked the towel from her body. Before she could protest, he threw her over his shoulder and hauled her out of the bathroom with a firm grip on her ass and thigh. She kicked and punched as he carried her through the sitting room. Her tiny fists hammered his back, propelling him through the kitchen and into the mudroom.

The tall cabinet held everything he needed. Pinning her tiny, bucking body to his shoulder with one arm, he gathered rope, cuffs, condoms, and his favorite whip. Then he reached for the door that led to the woods out back.

A painful wail tore from her lungs, her nails clawing his back. “What...what are you— No, I can't. Can't go out.” Her breathing came in choking stops and starts. “What are...you doing?”

He'd spent seven years breaking people. Could the same methods un-break someone? It would certainly make her think twice before puking again. “Punishment, darling.” He threw open the door and stepped outside.

She convulsed in his arms, totally missing out on the surreal skyscape, the fading mist of violet clouds, and the full moon ascending above the horizon of timber. As she strangled on her breathless protests, he strode toward the tree line and into the twilight of what might be the longest night of her life.

Amber's screams clawed their way into Van's heart as she flailed and sobbed in her wrist bindings. Fucking hell, why did he care? He wasn't an unfeeling man, but his emotions usually resulted in a ruthless, more external reaction, like a black eye on the person who caused them. This unexpected compassion smacked the damned sense out

of him. What the hell was he supposed to do with that?

He cinched the last knot around the tree and recalled what he'd read about agoraphobia. Systematic desensitization was the term many articles used, and his takeaway was simple. Expose her to the phobia. Let her panic, watch her freak out, and don't let her give in to her response, which is avoidance.

It was supposed to be a gradual process, but easing into things wasn't his style. And while he could've handled Amber's punishment inside the cabin, she needed to learn how to cope with and overcome the fear. He wanted to become the habitual response she turned to.

His own purpose hadn't wavered. Helping her would help him. A whole, recovered Amber would prove he was a better man, that he could be a good father. If he succeeded, she would stand by his side and maybe even hold his hand when he met his daughter for the first time.

Hanging from a massive horizontal branch by her arms, she kicked her feet through the dirt, contorting her torso and gulping for air as if each breath were her last. A string of hyperventilating shrieks followed. Spasms shook her body, and the demon returned in the form of flinging spit and snapping teeth. “I hate you.” More heaving. “Fuck you.” Her teeth chomped at the air between sputtered insults.

He'd managed to dodge the majority of her rabid bites, but she'd sunk her canines into his arm twice before he'd securely tied her to the branch. She'd burrowed beneath his skin in more ways than one, and he couldn't help but treasure the imprints she'd left on him.