Vanquish (Deliver 2)

She opened the door, enough to leave a sliver without feeling the malevolent force of the open air. Then she sprinted down the hall, fighting for oxygen and towing a thousand-pound string of reservations behind her.

The deadbolt slid free, not once but four times in rapid succession. Huh. Was this some kind of neurotic indecisiveness? Or was the crazy woman taunting him? Amber was probably the kind of girl who would leave bite marks all over his dick.

Van grinned.

When the knob twisted and a soft glow illuminated the slivered opening, his pulse electrified. There it was, her free will dangling in the open door. He could take it, violently and recklessly, the moment he walked in. He flexed his fingers, anticipating fistfuls of her hair.

His cock pulsed as the thrill of possibilities heated his blood. It would be so damned exhilarating to throw her against the wall, mar her pretty skin, and fuck her before the stunned effect of terror released its first breath.

He stood taller, lighter, no longer bound by slave-buyer virginity requirements or his father's bullshit tyranny. He could be greedy, merciless, unrestrained. He could beat her just for letting him in. He could fuck her any way he wanted. Then he could take her home, chain her in his room, and keep her until he was done.

He hadn't taken anyone against their will since Joshua Carter, limiting his sexual encounters to quick fucks with men and women to take the edge off. Had it really been a year since he'd felt this rush? Why the hell was he giving into it now?

Because this fearful, sassy, crazy woman had awoken something inside him.

He slid on his leather gloves, unconcerned with how she might react to them. When he nudged open the door, the sound of her heels speed-clicked around the corner and faded into another room. He hadn't expected a red carpet welcome, but seriously? She didn't know his intentions, yet she'd opened the door and run? That was fucked up from the tits up.

As he crossed the threshold, the aroma of bleach and springtime fumigated his nose, a peculiar concoction of citrus, girly gardenias, and enough disinfectant to saturate a morgue. Maybe she was hiding a body. He locked the deadbolt and followed the aseptic wisp through the small sitting room.

Up ahead, a doorway opened into the kitchen. The hallway branched off to the left, leading to three rooms. Shadows gathered around the entrances of two. A soft band of light gleamed from the third, presumably where she'd run off to. She could wait. If she was stupid enough to let him roam alone, that was her problem.

Dated but well-kept furniture formed perfect right-angles, enclosed by gray walls, wood floors, black fabrics, and the sheer absence of color. What halted his steps, however, were the four round wall clocks, hanging side-by-side, identical in style, and synced down to the motherfucking second hand.

The oddity propelled him to examine the room closer as he listened for her footsteps. Four candles lined the glossy coffee table, four black pillows sat at rigid attention on the gray couch, and four bookshelves filled one wall. No TV. No knick-knacks. No picture frames. And definitely no trace of the pungency that would come with harvesting marijuana. Not that he still entertained that assumption.

Which raised new questions about her twice-a-week visitor. Zachary Kaufman was an unknown who would need to be dealt with.

With the envelopes tucked under one arm, he brushed a gloved finger over the dust-free surfaces, turning in a circle and searching for a deviation in the patterned decor. Everything was in symmetrical groups of four. The row of leather coasters, the books on the shelves, and the five-light chandelier...yep, missing the fifth bulb. Even the damned orchid on the sofa table had four white blooms with four petals each, as if she'd plucked the poor thing to fit an obscene idea of perfect proportion.

While the impersonal space offered little insight into who she was, one thing was certain. She was a straight-up freak of orderly foursomes.

“Come here, Van.” Her voice skipped down the hall, strong and confident.

He stiffened, and his head tilted. She was beckoning him? Oh, how he wanted to answer with a cruel laugh just to expose her misunderstanding. Little did she know, he'd moved the mics during the twenty-four minute wait and had listened to her frantic footsteps running in and out of the back rooms. And why had she made him wait exactly twenty-four minutes? Was it an even-numbered thing or something more practical, like setting up a plan to trap him? If it were the latter, the pistol tucked in his ass crack would let her know she'd surrendered the instant she invited him inside.

He slid his tongue over his lips, seeking the toothpick he'd forgotten to replace. The worst part about being a sick bastard was the internal view of his perversions. He'd watch, like a helpless witness, as his body instilled fear in the eyes of his captives, his memories molding them into a weaker version of himself. In those moments, when his hands became manacles and his strikes connected with flesh, he beat the living shit out of the pathetic boy he once was. Nothing was more therapeutic. Or fucked up.

A jolt of heat pulsated his groin. Christ, he couldn't wait to introduce her to the realm of his imagination.

He leaned over the coffee table and stacked three coasters in a lopsided pile. As he passed the couch, he rotated one square pillow to sit on its cornered edge. His grin stretched so big his mouth hurt. Sometimes, it was the little things that teased sadistic pleasures.

Circling back to the front door, he toed off his sneakers and left them there. His silent gait carried him to the kitchen where he unlocked the sliding door. Would she check the locks? He dropped the thick drape back in place to cover the glass, adjusting the pleats to their former order so she wouldn't notice he'd touched them.

A couple of minutes had passed since she'd let him in. Was she clutching a butter knife, waiting to pounce? Counting to four over and over? He smiled at the thought of keeping her waiting.

With easy breaths and slow strides, he entered the short hallway, embracing the pursuit, stalking the innocent, preying exclusively on trust.

She'd willingly opened her door for the last time. Her naiveté would be the first thing vanquished by the hard, heavy weight between his legs.

Filling his lungs, he swallowed his enthusiasm and paused at the first of the three doors in the hall, an empty bathroom. As much as he craved an impulsive fuck-fight, he would take her the way he'd captured all the others, with planning and patience.

He dug a toothpick from his pocket and gripped it between his teeth, buying a few seconds to relax his dick. To speed things along, he shifted his thoughts to the one pure thing in his life. His daughter's vibrant smile, her lively mannerisms, and the crescendo of her precious voice spiraled breathless warmth through his chest and eased the strain against his zipper.

God, he wanted a place in her life, but she lived with Mr. E's widow. Revealing his identity to Livana was a long-term plan-in-progress.

It'd been easy for Liv to slip into Livana's life. The authorities knew she was Livana's biological mother. Legally, she was entitled to claim custody. She had a steady job, plus the six million he'd given her. But he didn't think she'd ever take their daughter from her stable home. Liv was a recovering slave after all, with her own aftermath of healing and maturing to work through.

Unfortunately, his ability to claim custody was nonexistent because he didn't exist. Not to the authorities and not to Mr. E's widow. Exposing his identity would link him to Mr. E's trafficking operation and land him life in prison. So his safest avenue to Livana was through Liv.

He gnashed his teeth. Before he could approach Liv, he needed to understand how she'd freed eight slaves and made the buyers disappear. Cartel? Hired hit man? Last thing he wanted was to become one of her disposed bodies.

With a swift adjustment

of his finally-flaccid cock, he strode toward the only illuminated doorway in the hall and stopped at the entrance, his thumb on his hip, fingers near the concealed gun at his back.

She perched on a stool at the center of a bed-less bedroom, facing him, her back rigidly straight and her gaze on his gloved hand.

Four leather knife sheaths lay on the workbench behind her. His eyebrows crept up his forehead. Definitely a far cry from cowgirl boots. Would she ever cease to surprise him?

Rubber utility mats lined the floor. One wall held a treadmill, a Smith machine, and a metal rack stacked with free weights, arranged by size. No wonder her ass was a wicked bounce of muscle. He imagined her bent over and the inviting space her firm cheeks would create between her thighs.

Heat pierced through his body, contracting his muscles and leaving little room for patience. Fuck, the wait felt like a hundred searing needles, but he relished it, wanting her beneath his skin.

His bulk filled the doorway, legs spread wide, arms loose at his sides, confident he could draw the gun before she could wedge a hidden weapon from that tight dress. While he waited for her to look up, he drank in her features. The regal curves of her face. The tiny slope of her nose. The way her lips naturally tipped upward despite the tension around her mouth. But why the hell had she changed her clothes?

The overhead light reflected off the blond curtain of her hair. The color seemed...wrong, too pale for her honey-light skin. It fell over her face as she stared at the floor, a paradox of insecure beauty.

He tilted his head. Of course, he knew very little about her, but he was missing something crucial, a fragile facet beneath the pristine makeup and trained physique.

He rolled the toothpick with his tongue. “Why do you bleach your hair?”

Golden-brown eyes connected with his, blinking furiously, so deliciously nervous. “It's...” She huffed. “None of your business.”

Slowly, cautiously, he slid back the hood of his sleeveless sweatshirt. Her breathing quickened as her gaze skimmed his exposed biceps, his face, and lingered on the scar that divided his cheek. She looked away, her shoulders curling around her ears.