Vanquish (Deliver 2)

“I like the way it tastes on our lips, and so do you.” He kissed her again. “The test results came back today. You're clean.”

She relaxed against him, draped over his body, her cheek on his chest, smiling happily. Not that she'd worried about STDs, but he'd put her on the pill when she arrived—using a no script online pharmacy—and she hadn't had sex without a condom since she'd been married. “No wonder that felt so good.”

“Mm.” He stroked her hair with one hand and cupped her ass with the other. “I went to Brent and Tawny's house tonight.”

Fucking whiplash. She jerked back and collided with his unreadable gaze. “Why?”

He forced her face back to his chest with a strong hand and held her in place. “I drove there to kill him. Decided not to.”

Her heart raced. She hadn't even considered the possibility. “You're not a murderer.”

A heavy sigh expanded his ribs, and his thumb drew restless circles over her jaw where he held her against him. “A year ago, Liv was brutally raped by a slave buyer. I felt responsible because I'd sent her to him fully fucking aware of what kind of monster he was. When I found out, I shot his wife just to torture him. Then I...” He exhaled. “You don't need to hear the details. I killed him.”

Torture. Van had no doubt brought unholy vengeance on that man. His breathing labored, and his hand loosened on her head. She rose up and searched the hard lines of his face. No remorse or horror painted in those lethal features.

“Protective till the end,” she whispered.

“The very end, in fact. I packed up after that to leave the operation for good.”

“But Liv shot you before you got out?”

He twined their legs together. “Yeah.”

“Your avenging-murder days are over?”

“We’ll see.”

Right. If someone harmed her, all bets were off. The thought filled her with a selfish kind of comfort. She slid a toe up and down his calf. “You're not going to rehang the drapes, are you?”

He laughed. “Nope.”

That was a problem she'd worry about in the morning. “What happened with Liv tonight?”

He combed his fingers through her hair and stared at the ceiling. “You were right. She's too scared to trust me. Can't blame her.” He lowered his eyes to hers. “They want to meet you. Joshua specifically. The meeting is set a month from today.” The fingers in her hair curled, pulling the strands and speeding her pulse. “In a restaurant.”

The spectacle played out in her head. A slobbering panic attack, nothing like the little gasping hiccups she'd been having outside the cabin. More like one of those spit-flinging episodes that bucked her body all over the floor and rolled her eyes into the back of her head. Patrons would gape in horror and spill their drinks. The manager would call for an ambulance. And Van would be humiliated.

A silver light focused on her, funneling her feral thoughts back to the loft, the bed, and the hard body cradling her. His eyes glowed with acceptance, hope, faith. He looked at her with the kind of love that would transcend any answer she gave.

With a trembling smile, she nodded. “I'll try.”

Amber did try. Hour by hour, day after day, Van watched her tackle her fear till her body gave out. He supported her the best way he knew how, with a commanding presence, a steady hand, and an aching yet prideful heart. But he eased up on pushing and dragging her in his usual way, because dammit, she was hard enough on herself.

Even now, five days away from the meeting with Liv and Joshua, she lay passed-out in the front seat of the Mustang, covered in sweat and dark hair tangled around her. Because she'd demanded he drive her to the edge of the two-hundred acre property.

He paced beside the open passenger door, the gravel driveway crunching beneath his sneakers. Even through muscle spasms and hyperventilation, she'd fought with white knuckles on the dashboard to remain conscious.

The tightening in his gut told him she wouldn’t make it inside that restaurant. If she didn’t, he would never hold it against her. But how well would she accept her failure?

He searched his pockets for a toothpick and came up empty. Fucking hell.

He lowered onto the edge of the seat beside her and stroked the soft, damp skin on her cheek, traced the lashes beneath her closed eyes, and pressed his thumb against her full bottom lip. He yearned to take her back to the house before she woke, but he'd agreed to her plea.

If I pass out, please don't drive me back till I wake. I need to fight through this.

The phobia was so deeply worked into her mind it felt more powerful than the two of them combined. But she had made progress. She'd conquered the uncovered windows within one week. Hell, she didn't even mess with her hair anymore when she passed by them.

The bulimia seemed to be subdued because she didn’t obsess over her body image anymore. She never tried to cover her body from him, her appetite had grown to a healthy level, and a few times, he’d caught her looking at her reflection, not with disgust, but with approval flickering in her eyes.

The OCD had become a trivial thing. She still counted and popped her knuckles when she was upset, and she would always be an orderly little neat freak. But it didn't control her life. Not like the agoraphobia. Not like him.

Her eyes fluttered open, flicking over the surrounding windows, groggily orienting. Her fingers curled in her lap, and her breathing hitched.

He cupped her face to direct her focus on him. When their eyes locked, he was transported back to the first time they met. On her porch, him with his dick in his hand, her all dolled up for a date with the mailbox. Her brown eyes, round as saucers then, had been so terrified.

The very same terror stared back at him now. He tensed, and the surrounding timber stilled, too, waiting for her reaction.

Her breathing tightened, followed by the usual shaking, wheezing, and sweating. Her choking sobs wrenched at the air and weighted his stomach with lead. He crawled into the driver's seat, closed the doors, and sped back to the house, his heart stumbling all over itself. This wasn't working. Nothing was working.

After he fed her lunch, she sat at the kitchen table, staring at the remnants of oyster bisque in the bowl. Her shoulders slumped, her head lowered, and she wouldn't maintain eye contact.

He wore a path on the tiles around her chair, his muscles stiff and his throat tight. Joshua had given him a chance to win Liv’s trust. Would this meeting be his only chance? It seemed like an all or nothing kind of opportunity, to prove to Liv he had a girl who wasn’t coerced or enslaved.

But her dejected posture made his stomach sink. “Fuck the stupid meeting, Amber. We can attempt another one at a later date. Whenever you're ready.”

Her chin hardened. “Where's the man who broke into my house and fucked with all my stuff? Stop being gentle with me. Van. You're the only person who has ever given enough of a shit about me to shove me out the door.” She stood, fire sparking in her eyes, and pointed a finger at him. “I need you to shove me across the porch on my face if you have to.”

His heart banged against his ribs with furious agreement.

>   “We're doing this.” She squared her shoulders. “I'm doing this.”

But she was doing it for him and only because he would be there. If she failed, her devastation could be self-damaging, and he couldn’t allow that to happen.

He pressed his lips together and rubbed his forehead. She was a stunning, naturally-submissive, housebound, consensual slave. He should've been out-of-his-mind ecstatic. But if he had one regret in their two-month relationship, it was his stupid, selfish fucking mission to be her obsession. If he hadn't come into her life, maybe she would've lost her house. But more than likely, she would've landed on her feet because she was bullheaded and strong as fuck.

None of that mattered now. He'd fed her, protected her, controlled her every damned move, and in doing so, he'd robbed her of her self-reliance and replaced it with an unhealthy dependency. Him.

She blew out a breath and cocked her head, her eyes suddenly bright and mischievous. “I have an idea.”

Just like that, she brought a smile to his face. “Does it involve bleach and scrub brushes?”

She tapped her chin. “Hmm. I'm thinking gasoline.” Her eyes glimmered. “And fire.”

An hour later, he stood beside a well-fueled bonfire roaring twenty-paces from the cabin. The heat from the flames and the aroma of wood smoke had an old-fashioned way of fortifying the spirit and moving the psyche into a place of deep contentment.

He looked up to find her leaning against the doorjamb, just inside the back door. Her arms wrapped around her torso, her expression strained with panic. No doubt she wouldn't be stepping over the threshold. But beneath the fear lay a softness in her eyes, a kind of peaceful resolve.

She'd said the fire could burn away the past, melt the painful memories, and make room for transformation. It was worth the try.

He gave her one more questioning look, arching his eyebrow. Are you sure?