Vanquish (Deliver 2)

His hands lowered and dangled between them. He didn't look up, didn't acknowledge her at all. “When he was done with my mother, he turned to me. I wouldn't let go of that doll. He was so goddamned strong I couldn't stop him from ripping Isadora out of my hands.”

“Isadora? Your mother?”

His head cocked, and his eyes narrowed in confusion on the broken doll between their feet. He squeezed his legs tighter against his chest, his body curling inward. He was shutting down.

In a bold gesture, she reached out and placed her hand on his cheek, stroking her fingers through the thick hair above his ear.

He shook his head, eyes on the floor, then leaned into her touch. “I'd named the doll after my mother.”

There was no embarrassment or resentment in his tone, just...sadness. He loved his mother, that much was clear, and evidently that love wasn't reciprocated.

A burn seared through her nose. She envied his devotion. She didn't know her mother well enough to love her. There'd been no connection, no relationship. Just illness. She rocked forward to her knees and wrapped her arms around his shoulders.

His legs dropped, and he pulled her against his chest, speaking softly into her hair. “When he stomped on the doll, her body split in half, and the arms and legs tore off. Just like that, she was dead.”

She rubbed his rigid back, her own muscles stiff with anguish. The attachment he must've felt for that doll amidst such a neglected, fucked-up upbringing... God, he must've mourned her. The doll. His mother. She glanced over his shoulder and took in the menagerie of brokenness with new eyes.

It was tragic and beautiful and inspiring. She didn't know the depth of his suffering, but the coping, the struggle to self-medicate? She knew all about that. The memory of his doll had stuck with him, and he'd recreated his appreciation for it, clinging to the notion that he could somehow repair what had happened, that he could fix the past with the present.

She didn't think that was possible, but what did she know? Just because she hadn't been successful at taking back her own life didn't mean he couldn't find some kind of peace in creating an indestructible doll.

He adjusted her legs so that she straddled his lap and squeezed her chest to his. His arms were strong and immovable around her, his body a powerhouse of muscle. But she felt the scared boy in the hunch of his shoulders and the restlessness of his fingers gripping at the shirt covering her back. That little boy felt like her insides, fractured and hurting, lonely and scared, but brimming with the desire to love something or someone and to be loved.

His cheek rubbed against hers, but his arms turned to stone and his chest expanded with a long, tense inhale. “After he smashed the doll, he pressed my face into the dirt and fucked me.” Her heart crushed instantly at the emptiness in his voice and the impact of his words. He released a slow breath and kissed her brow. “I came to grips with that a long time ago. He was the first but certainly not the last. For the next four years, many of her drug dealers turned to me when she was too stoned to put out. She OD'd when I was thirteen.”

Amber held him tightly, her hug expressing what she couldn't with her voice. When he leaned back, his eyes were clear and searching. His gentle expression filled her with heartache, but she also felt a strong surge of something else. “I'm proud of you.”

He cupped her face, his thumbs caressing her cheeks as his eyes followed the movement. “Mm. Not much to be proud of, Amber. By age thirteen, I was a whore just like her.”

Her jaw stiffened, her words rushed and heated. “You were young. It was all you knew. And you broke free from it. You didn't let it kill you.”

“Don't make excuses for it.” His eyes sparked. “I don't.”

She wanted to argue, but his hard, domineering glare was back. She bit her lip, her mind swimming through everything he'd told her. “So you're trying to make a doll that doesn't break?”

His gaze traveled through the garage, probing the broken body parts. “I've tried. They all break eventually.” He laughed. “I'm convinced their hollow bodies are filled with mysterious energy, just waiting to cave in. Like dark matter. Can't fuck with science.”

She stroked a finger over his jaw, savoring the connection. “Dark matter holds the universe together.”

His lips twitched. “It also threatens to destroy it.”

Were they talking about the dolls or him? She pointed at the plastic woman and child sitting in the cabinet. “What about those two? They're not broken.”

His eyes closed, opened, and he patted her leg, lifting her to her feet as he stood. “That's enough for one day. I've got shit to do.”

More secrets then. She stared at their shiny blank faces, and they stared back, trapping their story behind painted lips. “You'll tell me when you're ready?”

He nodded and led her to the door with light steps as if he'd shed the weight of the world. So why did she feel so heavy? It was admirable what he was doing, making and breaking dolls to redeem his childhood. To redeem his mother.

But she wouldn't dress it up. He was her mirror in a way. They both carried a million cracks beneath the skin. Even under the stark light of the fluorescents, it was hard to see which of them was more broken. But for the first time, she felt like she had to vanquish her mental illness not for herself but for someone else. Because she was broken with him, and if she fixed herself, maybe she could make him a little less broken, too.

The first twenty-four hours in Van’s cabin had been both terrifying and eye opening. Amber’s surroundings and the man she shared them with challenged the routine and order she desperately clung to. Her world had become a state of nonlinear catastrophic exasperation.

As the hours bled into days, the next three weeks were very much the same. Every day was just like the first, the punishments and the tenderness, the panic attacks and the sex. She made his life hell, and he whipped her for it. She adored him, when she didn’t hate him.

He followed through on his promise to be as messy as she was clean. When she scrubbed the shower walls, he coated them with motor oil. When she picked up his socks, he decorated the house with tampons, tying the strings in knots so complicated she couldn't undo them.

Three weeks with him made her fear a little less. She still couldn't face the outdoors, yet every day he forced her out. Sometimes, he required a single step on the porch. Most days, he hauled her kicking and screaming to the tree where he whipped her and fucked her into an adrenaline-induced state of elation.

But as the weeks passed, she could still feel that intangible thing in her head, scratching against her brain like it wanted out. Something else lived in there, too, making her anxious. Her dependency on routine and straight lines was shifting. She was becoming too centered on Van.

She was aware of it, knew it was unhealthy, and still she listened for his footsteps and watched his expressions with a pounding heart. Whenever he left the house to jog in the woods or run errands, she awaited his return with an uneasy amount of panic.

Then there were his secrets. How did he get his scars? Why did he keep those dolls in the glass cabinet? Why wouldn't he tell her? She'd developed a new obsession, a dangerous one.

On day twenty-four, she sat alone in the garage at the worktable and tied off the final stitches on a doll. The body was made of leather, strong and durable, and stuffed with wool batting. She'd glued and sewed the plastic limbs and head to the leather torso. Van had painted the face with red puckered lips and twinkling blue eyes. The long straw-colored hair had taken him hours to weave.

She finished it off by dressing it in a blue gown with yellow bows. When she held it up for inspection, a feeling of breathlessness came over her as heat radiated through her chest. Try to break this one, Van.

She hopped up, carrying the doll with her, and stopped at the display cabinet. The angle of the light cast her reflection in the glass door. She guiltily tugged up her shirt and revealed her tummy. Having neglected her purging habit in Van's ever-watchful presence, she'd gained weight. A

t least six pounds, maybe more.

Bile simmered in her throat. She tucked the doll under her arm and pinched her hip, a repulsive hunk of flesh. Saliva burst through her mouth, overwhelming her with the sudden need to spit. She clamped her lips closed, fighting it.

Maybe he wasn't telling her his secrets because he'd lost interest in her. She hadn't made much progress combating the OCD, and she fought him every day when he dragged her outside. That must've been it. He was tired of her.

With her self-berating thoughts banging in her head, she left the garage in search of him. To show him the doll, to hold him, kiss him, talk with him, it didn't matter. She needed his strength and their connection.

When she stepped into the kitchen, she slammed to a halt. He leaned against the counter, sipping a glass of tequila, dressed in a suit. His strong, freshly-shaven jaw and thick, dark hair were just two of the countless traits that made him painfully attractive. He wore a narrow black tie and black button-up shirt beneath a suit that matched the striking color of his pale gray eyes.

The spice of his cologne reached her nose, seductively tempting her arousal. And taunting her insecurities.

Did he want to go on a date? He knew she couldn't. Oh God, she couldn't. She bit down on her cheek. Stop being so self-absorbed. Maybe this had nothing to do with her.

She swallowed her dread. “You look...Wow.” She wanted to eat him. She laid the doll on the counter and reached up, adjusting his collar and stroking her knuckles over his jaw. Then she slid her palm down his tie. “Why are you dressed up?”

He drained the glass of tequila and set it beside the doll. “I'm going out.”

A cold fever flashed through her cheeks. Dressed like that? A date with someone else? Her hands shook, and she gripped them behind her back. “Where?”

His eyes, God those eyes, pierced through her like knives. Then he sharpened the cut with his answer. “I'm going to see Liv.”