Vanquish (24 page)

“Uh huh.” The corner of his mouth ticked up. “Too scary out there?”

She glanced over her shoulder, acknowledging the door, and looked back at him. “Well, there's that. And while I could continue to fight through it and maybe someday make it beyond the porch, I've lost interest in escaping.” She put the strength of her backbone in her voice so he would hear her earnestness in the most absurd, childish, fucked-up reason ever. “Because I like you, too.”

Van had perfected the pose of lazy nonchalance years ago, but as he leaned against the fridge, he embraced it for no other reason than fucking exhaustion. Of course, Amber would pit her fear of him against the agoraphobia. But the first night? Good thing he'd wound her hair around his fingers like little trip wires.

No one could say she wasn't tenacious, especially considering her willingness to risk another panic attack so soon after the last one. No sweat off his balls, though. He'd been too curious to stop her. Besides, it moved her a step closer toward acceptance of her new life.

So he'd followed her down the stairs, blending into the shadowed corners of the cabin as she fought her demons in the bathroom and kitchen. When she'd opened the silverware drawer, he'd been ready to stop whatever cleaning fest she might've been envisioning. Honestly, his cabin could use a good scrub, but not at the expense of the OCD thing. He wanted to shake up the disorder, not enable it.

Big brown eyes glared up at him, her expression expectant, and challenge evident in the lift of her chin. Damn, she was willful and tireless. He was a year younger than she was, yet her energy ran circles around him. Apparently, he needed to workout more.

Judging by the fists that now moved to her hips, she was waiting for him to respond to her announcement. Impatient little twit. He'd already picked through her words, not only what she'd said but how she said it.

I've lost interest in escaping.

The steady resolve in her voice and her unwavering eye contact had been convincing. But her revelation wouldn't keep her from going outside. He'd make sure of that.

Because I like you, too.

Five easy words, but the promise they imparted filled him with fierce belonging. And an uncomfortable amount of sentimentality. He rubbed the back of his neck. He needed sleep. They both did.

“How about you
like me
upstairs...while we sleep.” He added that last part to make his intentions clear. Though he could be up for something else with a little coaxing.

She smiled, and the illumination of her eyes flooded the kitchen with light. “Yeah, okay. I'm beat.” Her voice hardened on the last syllable, asserting her disapproval of his heavy hand.

Bring it, baby.
Fuck, he looked forward to her fight. After a good night's rest.

He let her lead up the spiraled stairs because really, how could he refuse an opportunity to be eye-level with her backside? And fuck him gently with a two-by-four, she flexed that ass with the grace of the gods. The sight of her round cheeks straining the fabric of her dress would chase his dreams for an eternity.

Then he remembered he hadn't packed any of her panties. Christ, she was too damned tempting. Halfway through the climb, he shoved the dress up to her waist, found two unmarred spots of supple flesh, and pinched the hell out of them with both hands.

Her shriek echoed through the cabin. “Hands off my ass!” She reached back, wriggling to his delight, her fingers curling around his wrists. “I mean it.”

He released her, chuckling. “Darling, my hands and your ass are meant to be together. Don't fuck with destiny.”

She sighed, adjusting the dress, but he didn't miss the smile dimpling her face.

“You're insufferable.” She shook her head, then flew up the remaining steps, and vanished into the loft, leaving him standing there grinning like a fool. A deliriously happy fool.

The scar on his face bristled with his smile, itching. His lips fell, his fingers rubbing his cheek. She could cut him far deeper than a bullet or a knife.

He clenched his jaw and gripped the railing. He couldn't fathom backing away from whatever this was. There was so much about her, her unpredictability and her routines, her strength and her brokenness, that made him want to go all the way, wherever that might take him.

Tonight, he would sleep with her in his arms. She deserved someone better, but at the very least, he could come to bed freshly showered.

Her footsteps pattered around in the loft. All the dangerous weapons were locked up. He dashed to the bathroom and grabbed a five-minute shower.

When he climbed the stairs again, it was with renewed purpose. At the top, he found her digging through her bags. “What are you looking for?”

“Pajamas.” She moved to another bag.

He hadn't packed those, either. “Wasting your time.” He shed the towel around his waist and stretched out on the bed, arms folded behind his head, blissfully naked. “We both know you sleep like this.”

She didn't look at him, but her arms stopped moving, elbows deep in a bag. “I hate that you know that.”

He could see how the stalking stuff might bug her, but... “I won't apologize for that.” His obsessive habit had led him to her. “Come to bed.”

He anticipated another fight, one where she would refuse to undress and he would win because, well, he always won. But in bewitching Amber-fashion, she shocked him again.

Rising to her feet, she faced him with her hands on the hem at her thighs and tugged it up and over her head. Gorgeously nude in the glow of the lamp, she walked to the hamper, folded the dress, and placed it on the pile of dirty clothes. She stared at it for several heartbeats with her lips pursed and her eyebrows pulled in.

He shifted to his side, lifting on an elbow. Was it the sight of her laundry mixed with his? Or maybe she had some kind of ritual that involved sorting clothes in multiple hampers? Would the absence of her system trigger another breakdown? He refused to go to her. He wanted her to come to him when she was upset. “Amber?”

She looked up, and her fingers flew to her knuckles.
Crack-Crack—

“Amber.” He put force in his voice and grabbed the edge of the blanket, pulling it over his lower half and holding it up in invitation.

Her eyes darted to his face then lowered to his sleepy dick. She continued to stare, cracking her knuckles, as he recited the U.S. Presidents. “Washington, Adams, Jefferson” —
Madison
— “Mac...No, uh, Roe—”

“What are you doing?” She lowered her hands and approached the bed, head cocked.

Good girl. Keep walking.

His arm was growing tired of holding up the blanket. “Who was the fourth president?”

“Madison.” She blinked. “Why?”

He was bored a couple years ago, in between slaves, and passed the time by memorizing all the presidents, first ladies, and trivial facts about each. Now he used it to distract her from a meltdown, as well as to keep his dick from hardening and scaring her away.

“Takes my mind off things.” He glanced down at his flaccid cock and could feel the weight of her eyes there, too.

In the next breath, the lamp clicked off, and her knee landed beside him. Before he could catch his breath, she curled around him, arm hooked at his back and leg nudging between his.

Christ Almighty, what a goddamned fulfilling feeling, her hard feminine muscles and soft curves all up against him. He rolled to his back and savored the warm weight of her tight body pressed against his side. She felt fucking amazing, all relaxed and accepting, holding him as if she appreciated the intimacy as much as he did.

This was his new favorite position, and his dick wasn't even inside her. Hell, he wasn't even hard.

How was it that just twelve hours ago he'd held her at gunpoint, drugged her, and forced himself inside her. How could she have admitted she liked him or have any desire to snuggle against his body? But she had, and she was.

She wasn't normal.

He released a long, conflicted breath. They would never be normal. It just wasn't in their blood. He gripped her thigh, hooking it over his, and coiled his fingers around her hair. Fuck normal.

Her exhale warmed his neck, and the pad of her thumb traced his collarbone. “When was the last time you slept beside someone?”

“More than a year ago.” Which didn't exactly conjure sweet memories. On those rare occasions when Liv actually stayed in his bed, he'd never felt so alone. “She was the only one. What about you?”

“Brent was the first and last.” Her tits pushed against his ribs as she breathed in. “What was her name?”

“Liv.”

Her fingers jerked against his chest, but her lips pressed a soft peck on his shoulder, just beside the bullet wound. He'd tell her about that, about all of it, eventually. The idea of keeping anything from her was ludicrous. And so unlike his relationship with Liv, which had died at the hand of secrets.

Tonight had been the first night he didn't drive to Liv's neighborhood in over six months, and he hadn't even thought about it till now. Thinking of her tended to stir up a turmoil of conflicting emotions. But at the moment, all he felt was a dim ache somewhere behind his heart.

“Do you love her? Is that why you were on my porch?”

There were no quick responses to that. “I'm going to delay the answer to your last question because we're both tired. As for the first, I like to think of it as a seven-year fever.” Which had burned into a hotheaded, delusion-inducing illness.

His admission hovered in the darkness, smothering like a miasma he'd accidentally let in.

Her quiet voice scattered the thick air. “My fever lasted fourteen years.”

Fourteen years.
That sleazy asshat didn't deserve fourteen seconds with her. “You know how to treat a fever?”

“Mm. I'm too tired to think of something witty. Go ahead.”

“Rest and lots of
fluids
.” He lowered his voice. “Obviously, not at the same time.”

“Oh my God.”
Her groan dissolved into a soft lullaby of laughter. As it whispered through him, he realized the reason his days felt so empty was because they hadn't been filled with that sound.

He touched his lips to the top of her head, grinning. What a sentimental asshole.

For the second time that night, he waited for her breaths to tumble into sleep. This time, they did, pulling him along with a smile on his face.

The next morning, he woke wearing that same damned smile. But it didn't last. He was alone in the bed and the loft.

He shot up, his feet tripping over the floor. Only he wasn't tripping on a goddamned thing. Not a shirt or a magazine or a discarded pack of cigarettes in sight.

Fuuuuck. She'd been up for awhile.

The bedside clock read 10:43
.
He released a relieved breath. It was still early. He raked his hands through his hair. That was early, right? Jesus, what time did she normally wake?

He dug through the hamper, pulled out a pair of jeans, sniffed them, tossed them, and dug again until he found a fresher pair. Laundry was on the agenda at some point in the near future.

Tugging on the jeans, half-walking, half-hopping, he didn't bother with the zipper or button as he sharpened his attention on the stifling quiet downstairs. Would she have left?
Could
she?

A rush of blood heated his neck and face, his fingers curling into his palms. He plucked a toothpick from a holder on the dresser and sprinted down the stairs.

Halfway down the stairs, the scent of lemon and bleach reached Van's nose. Damn, damn, damn. He quickened his descent on silent feet. At the bottom, his gaze landed on the shiny kitchen counters, small appliances and canisters sparkling in a neat row, and Amber's ass hanging out of the fridge in her bend to scrub the deepest corner.

He pinched the bridge of his nose and let his frustration wave off his back. As much as he loved the sight of her in those little shorts cleaning his house, he wanted her to do it for
him
, not for her illness.

Shoulders back and chest out, he moved to the kitchen with heavy, wide steps. By the time he reached her, she was organizing condiments in the fridge door.