Vanquish (34 page)

For hours, he lingered in her bed, wrapped around her unconscious body, immobilized by the gravity of his decision and struggling to breathe through the agony of it. Soon, he would have to rise from her side and give her the only thing he had to offer—life itself.

Death seemed easier than this godawful burden of losing her. But she had a hell of a fight ahead of her, and if she could suffer through that, then he could endure the loneliness that awaited him.

He couldn’t stop the tears burning his eyes as he pressed his lips against her unresponsive mouth. He was numb to the violent tremors wobbling his steps as he staggered down the hall without turning around. He squeezed his eyes shut as he stumbled into the garage, the excruciating pain in his chest eclipsing the crash of the concrete floor against his knees.

He left the door opener on the shelf and forced his legs into the minivan. The he backed it onto the driveway and climbed out. Shades covered every window on Liv’s house, blatantly shutting him out. Not that he was in any state to give a fuck.

He reached inside Amber’s garage and pressed the door button on the wall. His chest burned and his throat ached as he stepped back and wrapped his arms around himself to keep from stopping the doors’ descent.

When the garage doors sealed shut, the silent finality of it ripped out his insides and beckoned the enclosing darkness with the sound of his sobs.

Amber woke with an ear-ringing headache. She hadn't even opened her eyes and her body already ached with grief, sagging into the mattress like a useless weight. She’d gone to bed hating herself for what she was doing to Van, and just like every other night, sleep hadn’t absolved her.

Her hand slapped over the mattress, searching for the warmth of Van's skin, his strength, their connection. Her fingers collided with papers.

She jerked up on her elbows and rubbed her eyes, blinking against the illumination of a nearby lamp. She rubbed and blinked again.

White walls bled into a shadeless window, glowing with sunlight. Her mouth dried as she soaked in the white carpet, white quilt, the duffel bags by the door... Oh God, her bedroom.

Dread iced through her veins, curling frigid fingers around her throat. The house should've been foreclosed, empty, gone. And where the hell were the shades? She sucked in a shaky breath and shouted, “Van? Van, where are you?”

She scrambled off the bed and raised trembling fingers to her lips, straining to hear his footsteps.

The A/C unit hummed outside the window. The shower down the hall dripped.
Plop-plip. Plop-plip.
The water was on? What the fuck for?

Beside the lamp, the bedside clock glowed 6:19 AM
.
Electricity, too? Her heart stopped then went ballistic, tightening her skin and firing up her muscles.

She sprinted through the house, searching room by room for answers, for him. Not a single shade on the windows. The fridge and cabinets were filled with food.
Food from the cabin
. She opened the garage door and shivered at the dark, cavernous space. No Mustang. No Van.

Returning to the kitchen, she gripped the edge of the sink and looked up. The window and backyard stared back. Her heart froze, and she dropped to the floor, out of sight. Was he out there? Was he coming back?

Unbidden, his words came rushing in, stabbing through her heart.

I enslaved her for seven years because I was selfish. That's not love, Amber, which was why I never thought to free her.

“Noooooo.” A roar burst from her throat, heaving her chest and burning her eyes. That couldn't be it. This wasn't freedom. It was some kind of a mistake, a misunderstanding. Oh Jesus, she needed to talk to him.

She reached up to the counter with a blind hand, found her phone, and swiped through the contacts. No calls. No new numbers. She tossed it across the floor and stared at it, helplessly. She'd never seen him use a phone or e-mail. He probably didn't even have those things.

Because I don't exist.

Her heart rate accelerated. Where was the cabin located? Somewhere outside of Austin. With trees. Lots of trees. Fuck! How could she have never thought to ask?

Because she never intended to leave.

She slammed a fist against the cabinet, rattling the doors. The one and only time she'd traveled the route from the cabin while conscious, she'd kept her damned eyes closed.

Her breath caught. Were there papers on the bed? She ran back to the bedroom and crawled over the mattress. The sight of the folded letters turned and twisted her stomach. Her hand flew to her belly, massaging the anguish there, her fingers brushing cotton. She looked down at the cami and panties that covered her body.

Blood drained from her face, her cheeks numb. He'd dressed her and left her. A quiver gripped her chin. She rubbed it roughly away and gathered the papers.

They shook in her hands as she sat on her heels and flipped through them. The first was a receipt for her mortgage. Zero balance, the house was paid off. A pang rippled through her chest.

Next were printouts of all her credit card statements and utility bills.
Zero balances
. The ache in her chest swelled to her throat.

The following letter showed an unfamiliar bank account in her name, the balance printed in bold font.
$100,000
. Enough to live on for years. Burning pinpricks hammered behind her eyes.

She choked, buckling over her knees. Sobs tumbled out, painful and wretched. Oh God, it hurt. He'd left her. Left her without shades on her windows. Left her with a secure and stable and financially-free life.

To free her.

She gritted her teeth, the papers crumpling in her fists. Stupid, stupid, stupid man. Why would she want any of this if she didn't have
him
?

She opened the last letter, a handwritten note scrawled with loose penmanship.

I will always love you, I will always want you, and I will never ever be disappointed in you. -Van

It was a good-bye. A fist-through-the-fucking-heart goodbye. The tears surged, hard and ugly and agonizing. She flung herself off the bed and staggered through the room with a helpless, rage-filled cry, her arms sweeping everything in her path. The lamp, the TV, and the duffel bags hit the walls and bounced along the floor, thumping and exploding.

Her vision blurred. Her legs crashed into furniture. Her teeth sawed her lips until blood coated her tongue. Her fingernails shredded and ripped in her attack on everything she could destroy.

At 8:27 AM, she sat on the floor with her back against the dresser. Her lungs burned, her cheeks cracked with drying tears, and her heart jabbed at her ribs with each thump of its sharp splintery edges.

“Well done, you crazy fucking bitch.” Her voice scratched her raw throat, but she deserved it. “First prize for world's ugliest temper tantrum. Yay.”

She took in the aftermath with little interest. Pillow stuffing covered the floor. Dents peppered the sheet rock. The small TV lay on its side with cracks spider-webbing over the screen.

Where was her anxiety for straight lines? Her impulse to tackle the mess?

She dropped her head back against the dresser and closed her eyes. She couldn't think about that right now. Something else was pressing against her brain.

He lived thirty minutes from that restaurant. If she knew which restaurant it was, she could narrow her search for the cabin. She jumped to her feet and strode toward the wall that faced Liv and Joshua's house, pressing her cheek against it. Maybe Van had given them his address? At the very least, they knew the restaurant.

And so her harrowing journey to their house began. By the end of that first night, she was able to peer out of every window without losing control of her breathing.

By day five, she started keeping her front door open, letting in bugs and sunshine and the gawking of neighbors in passing cars. She sat on the threshold, trembling and gasping, but she didn't pass out.

On day nineteen, her ass hit the bench on the front porch for the first time in two years. She'd stumbled into it, actually, in a breathless fall of exhausted, quivering muscles. She might've clapped her hands if they weren't squeezing the weathered slats in a death grip.

But she did manage a smile, the first smile to touch her lips since the night they'd left for the restaurant. God, he'd looked so handsome in his suit. He'd been so nervous and...turned on by her.

Her heart pinched, and her smile wobbled away. She missed him, deeply and painfully. His absence was a constant wrench of every breath as if her lungs could never quite fill without him.

She uncurled a hand and raised the hem of her old t-shirt, wiping the humidity and sweat from her face. He would've been proud of her. Fuck that.
She
was proud of herself.

“I'm sitting on his bench,” she announced to the coverage of bushes, the sunlight soaking into her damp hair. She ran her fingers over the wood, hoping to absorb some part of him that might still be there.

She glanced at the closed-up windows on Liv's house and nodded. She'd get there.

That night, she lay on top of the covers in bed, nude and as content as she could be without him beside her. As she fantasized about his heat sliding over her skin and his tongue controlling her mouth, her hands roamed her body.

Her house might've been a mess, but she'd maintained her daily regimen of cardio and strength training, and that effort flexed sensually in the hard hillocks of her ass and firm flesh on her hips. Her muscles and curves felt beautiful beneath her fingertips. And so did her pussy.

She stroked her fingers down her mound and between her folds as her thoughts filled with silver eyes, a thick cock, and seductive lips. The deep, reverberating voice in her head commanded she fuck herself. So she did, with urgent, wanton thrusts of her fingers. When his voice told her to come, she shouted his name to the ceiling.

There was a good chance she'd never find him, that she'd never be able to show him how far she'd come. But as the next two weeks passed, she protected her new self-esteem, nurturing it with every little progressive step. She refused to even consider puking. She made trips to the mailbox, reconnected with Dr. Michaels, and reinstated her leathercraft business, adding leather dolls to her list of merchandise.

She hadn't worked up to leaving the yard yet, but as the weeks passed, conquering the agoraphobia became more about self-reliance and less about finding Van.

Still, night after night, she sat on the bench and waited for him.

She'd always thought it would take a tragic event to rip down the walls of her phobia: her house catching fire, terminal cancer,
abduction and rape
. Yet, on day seventy-six, something unexpected finally propelled her over the property line and onto Liv's porch.

Love guided her shaky legs beneath the luminance of the moon. She loved herself enough to raise a sweat-soaked fist and knock on the door. And she loved him enough to smooth her breathing when a gorgeous brunette poked her head through the crack.

A pink scar, just like Van's, twitched on Liv's cheek as she tilted her head. “Yes?”

She curled her fingers in the fabric of her shorts, relaxed them at her sides, and lifted her eyes. “I...I...uh...” Her voice quivered, and the air thinned. “I live next door. I'm—” She wheezed with burning lungs, and Liv's emotionless expression didn't help her nerves. “Sorry. I'm a bit panicky.”

A car motored down the street behind her, and she jumped.
Jesus, get a grip.
“I'm...I
was
Van Quiso's...” What was she? Slave? Girlfriend? Lover?

Those dark eyes turned to stone. “What the fuck did he do?” Liv opened the door all the way and stepped toward her.

Her muscles heated, and her own eyes hardened. And she didn’t step back. “He loved me enough to shove me out the door.” Oh fuck.
Awkward.
She glanced over her shoulder, cringing at the open space of the shadowed street. “Can I come in?”

Ten minutes later, she sat in a brown leather armchair with a mug of coffee in her trembling hands. Liv and Joshua perched on the couch across from her, Joshua's arm wrapped around Liv's shoulders. No doubt they assumed the worst about Van, and her need to rectify that spilled the words from her mouth.

They listened without comment or expression as she told them her story. The agoraphobia and OCD, the reason Van was on her porch, the abduction and rape, the dolls and the restaurant, his forceful attempts to overpower her disorders, his longing to have a relationship with his daughter, and his final unselfish act. The how and why he shoved her out the door. On the surface, the events were horrific and unsavory, but she spoke of them with a passion that made her eyes burn, her chest swell, and her lips curve upward. “I love him.”

“I see that.” Liv reclined against the couch back, her denim-clad legs crossed at the knee and hands folded in her lap. “Stockholm Syndrome is an intense—”

“I have an addictive personality, Miss Reed.” She set down the mug and faced the woman head on. “If you want to psychoanalyze me, please consider all of my
syndromes
. As well as your own capture-bonding relationship.” She flicked her eyes at a grinning Joshua.