“Did you count the swings of the whip?” he murmured against her forehead. “In little groups of four?”
Her head jerked back. Count the—? No, it hadn't occurred to her. Her teeth clamped down on the inside of her cheek, sparking a burn in her eyes. How could she have forgotten to count? She'd been so scared of the woods stretched out before her, gawking at her nudity. Then the sting of the whip came, and her mind had just...blanked. He'd distracted her in a way no one else had been able to do.
“Didn't think so.” His face was softly vacant, but a smile lightened his tone. “Twenty-three lashes. Not twenty. Not twenty-four.”
Twenty-three marks on her body. An uneven number without balance or special meaning. Her pulse raced. The fucking prick did it on purpose! “Give me another whack of your whip. Just one.” She leaned up, patting his whiskered cheek, but he wouldn't open his eyes. “It'll be quick. We can do it right here.” She cringed at the frantic pitch in her voice.
“Begging already?” His lips bowed up beneath her fingers, his eyelids smooth and closed. “Go to sleep.”
She glared at him, fingers itching to slap his peaceful face. What would he do? Give her another twenty-three lashes? Pin her down and fuck her? Take her outside? The last thought jerked her hand away.
The longer she studied him, the more conflicted she became. The sharp angles of his jaw, the slope of his perfect nose, the fringes of dark lashes, and the jagged edge of the scar that cut so deep into his cheek it must've hit bone. He was stunning, painfully so, but nothing in his features revealed who he was.
His lips relaxed, the muscles in his face loosened, and soon his chest settled into an even rise and fall of sleep.
For the next hour, she deliberated over what to do. She was a captive to this man. She should've been plotting her escape with fearful breath. Only she didn't feel scared, and that should've scared her the most. Instead, she was enraged, dreaming up ways to stick it up his ass and rotate it because he'd refused her a twenty-fourth mark. So yeah... All kinds of logical reasoning going on.
The bedside clock flipped to 12:04. It had only been twelve hours since she'd sent Zach away. No one would've noticed her disappearance yet. Or ever. No missing woman reports. No investigations. She was a nobody and had no one to blame for that but herself.
Van hadn't moved in his sleep, his heavy arm hanging limply around her. How could he have let his guard down so easily?
Because he knew she didn't have the balls to leave the house.
Well, fuck him. He was possessive and controlling, and she couldn't mistake that for care or concern. Everything he did was calculated, and all she had to combat him with were her wits and courage.
Courage?
Right. With a long inhale, she dug deep, pulling it from somewhere, certainly not from her hammering heart or queasy stomach. Then she shimmied out from beneath his arm. When her hair caught in his fingers, she bit down on her lip, her pulse thundering in her ears.
He didn't stir.
Slowly, breathlessly, she unwound the strands from his grip and slipped to the floor. Peeking over the edge of the mattress, she watched his breathing for a long, agonizing minute. Then she glared at the clutter. Don't pick it up.
With the grace of a queen balancing in six-inch heels, she tiptoed around the mess, stopped to remove a casual halter dress from one of her bags on the floor, and gave her aquarium a longing look. Come on, Amber. You can't take it with you.
She hugged the dress to her chest and dashed down the stairs on silent toes. In the bathroom, she pulled on the knee-length halter, ran a brush through her hair, and scoured the cabinet. Lotions, soaps, toothbrushes, and tampons filled the drawers, but no makeup.
She gripped the edge of the counter. He'd grabbed all these things from her house but not the one thing she needed to escape. How could she go outside without her cosmetic armor?
A skitter of panic seized her muscles as her reflection glared back in the mirror. Pallid skin, dark shadows beneath dull eyes, and lips twisted with disgust. She couldn't let anyone see her like that.
Excuses. She didn't need to look her beauty pageant best. She just needed a goddamned backbone. What kind of captive dolled herself up before making her great escape?
The stalling, crazy kind. God, she really annoyed herself sometimes.
She crept through the stillness of the house, the windows closed up, and the loft looming above like a watchtower. Was he watching her? Not a flicker in the soft lamp light on his nightstand.
Releasing a thready exhale, she moved to the kitchen. No cell phones or phone jacks. No knives or scissors in the drawers or on the butcher block. Not that she could've found a goddamned thing in the junk overflowing from every cobwebbed cranny. People really lived like this? Thankfully, Brent had been tidy, though thinking on it, she'd stayed on his heels, fixing everything he'd touched. And hadn't cleanliness been a point of contention between her father and OCD mother, one of the many reasons he'd left?
She opened the silverware drawer, at least the semblance of one. It also held oily screws, toothpicks, and pencils. She grabbed a fork and held it up.
What was she going to do with that? Hell, what would she do with a knife? Wasn't that something an escapee would carry while running for her life?
Until she had a meltdown, stumbled over her feet, and stabbed herself.
She abandoned the weapon idea and considered the cluttered drawer. She could put a really good dent in this while he slept. She'd start with the utensils and realign them in their appropriate sections. First, she'd have to find the sections, remove the crumbs, scrub the bottom, and—
Shit, she was doing it again. She was supposed to be escaping. As she continued to mentally clean and organize the drawer, she backed away from it and took the final steps to the mudroom.
Inside were two solid doors. One leading out back, and the other? A garage and maybe a getaway car?
Gripping her knuckles, she popped through the joints, working herself into a frenzy of indecision. Fuck, she hadn't driven in two years. And wouldn't he hear the garage doors go up?
She approached the back door and stopped a foot away. When her toes curled, she looked down in shock. She wasn't wearing shoes. Brilliant, Amber. No makeup, no jewelry, her hair unwashed and uncurled, she wasn't even close to being put together. Then there was the fact she had no clue what she'd do if she actually made it off the porch and encountered another person. Would she ask for help?
If she didn't face plant in a full-on breakdown, she'd spazz out over her appearance and run in the opposite direction, as pointless as that would be. But where would she go? She didn’t even know where she was. Could she go home? He'd track her down, of that she was certain.
Assuming he was still asleep, she'd have a head start. She touched the knob, gripping it with a sweaty hand as her nerves flared tremors down her spine.
God, she'd rather be sleeping with him, nuzzled up against his hard body, soaking in his warmth. She could stay...
To what end? She'd heard about the psychological effects of captivity, how capture-bonding could fabricate emotional ties. He'd hit her, whipped her, raped her. Don't fucking forget how dark he can be.
But his darkness had showed her the moon for the first time in two years.
The tarnished metal grew slick beneath her palm. Her brain told her heart she needed to leave, but her hand wouldn't turn the knob.
Her chin trembled, and her grief rushed forward in a riptide of shaking limbs and burning tears. Dammit, she was so tired, so emotionally mixed-up. She wasn't strong enough to open that door. Not now, maybe not ever.
Deep down, she knew she'd never make it off that porch, but fuck, her pathetic self couldn't even try.
Her knees gave out, and she slid to the floor, so fucking dramatic in her misery. How had she ended up here? Not in this house, but at this level of utter weakness?
Dr. Michaels had said the how wasn't important. It was the now that mattered. Does the now stop you from eating, sleep
ing, smiling, interacting...living?
Van seemed to encourage all those things. She folded her arms on her bent knees, head on her forearms, and stared at the gray tiles between her feet. Gray like his eyes, the perfect blend of light and dark.
She sat there, displaced and achingly tired, until her tailbone complained and her eyes grew heavy. What's it gonna be, Amber? A life under his roof or a life filled with puking, sleeping pills, deliverymen, and loneliness?
She could always leave later, on another day. No, the unmade decision would linger and taunt her and drive her crazy.
For a girl who lost her shit when a sock found its way into the wrong drawer, she wasn't foaming at the mouth right now, in this house of clutter. Maybe there wasn't such a thing as a wrong drawer. Maybe here wasn't wrong. With different drawers. A different routine. With a man who might be able to love her as fiercely as he hurt.
She rubbed her eyes along her arms, wiping away stray tears. Lifting her weary head, her gaze crawled across the floor to the kitchen and froze.
Leaning against the fridge opposite the mudroom, he stood in the dim glow of the stove light. Wearing black athletic pants, legs crossed at the ankles, arms folded across his bare chest, he studied her with a calm, unreadable expression. She swallowed hard and dropped her eyes. Jesus, even his bare feet were intimidating.
Who knew how long he'd been standing there, watching her? She'd been so caught up in her pity party he could've been there the whole time.