Vanquish (6 page)

His exhales grew heavy, curling over her shoulder and pitching her into a breathless frenzy. The more she shoved against him, the tighter his arms constricted, lifting her until her feet kicked air. “What are you fighting? Fear?” His mouth touched her ear, his timbre a silken noose around her neck. “Fear is an imposture, little girl. It doesn't bruise or thrust or bite.” His grip tightened. “
Fear
is not your Master.”

Oh, holy mother. What was he saying? The terrible dread that occupied her belly bristled with thorns, impaling her with nightmares of public places, crowds, nowhere to hide, loss of motor control. And now her superficial fears embodied a very real, in-the-flesh threat.

He was going to take her, discover all her imperfections, and reject her. Abandon her somewhere away from home. Or kill her.

A furor of tears shot through her eyes and soaked her lashes. She clawed at his arms and stabbed her heels at his shins. If she could refill her lungs, she might be able to muster a scream big enough to wake the neighbors.

But she’d never seen a single person who lived on her street. How judgmental were they? If they came out, would they just stand there and gape? Oh God. “I have nothing you want.” She panted, choked. “I'm nothing. Let me...go.”

“As you wish.” His arms vanished.

The concrete stoop crashed against her knees, and pain ricocheted through her legs. Oh God, maybe he'd only been trying to help her stand? She'd overreacted, made a freak of herself.

She gagged on a sobbing exhale, and her fingers scraped the ground, searching for the package and coming up empty. Another torrent of nausea gripped her body, singeing her insides and spinning the ground beneath her.

She pushed through the disorientation and crawled toward the door as fast as she could. The metal threshold sliced her knees, but she was too numb and dizzy, seconds from fainting. She could feel him behind her, a thick cloud of judgment with eyes scorching her skin, witnessing her shame.

You think they don't know how fucked up you are? Everyone knows. You're a fucking embarrassment.

Oh, if Brent could see her now, dragging her body, snot dripping from her nose. What a fool she was. Maybe the prowler would shoot her and put her out of her misery.

She gripped the doorjamb. Fuck Brent. Fuck all of them. She pulled her legs inside and glanced at the blockhouse of muscle behind her as she swung the door. And froze.

The interior light caught the face within the hood. Her heart constricted, and her hand stopped the door, just a crack.

He hadn't moved from where he'd released her. Hands in his pockets, he regarded her with a lift of one dark eyebrow. His full lips pursed around a toothpick, hollowing his cheeks. A strong jaw and hard gray eyes roughened his model-like prettiness. But the thick scar bisecting his cheek was what stayed her hand, pinning her to the floor and summoning the deepest, most troubled part of her.

The gash curved from the outer crease of his eye to the crook of his mouth. It should've impaired his confident gaze and brutalized the symmetry of his deep-set eyes and chiseled nose. It should've made her look away.

Instead, it demanded tolerance, homage even, and fortified the savagery of his beauty. He was a perfect imperfection.

Her ogling had only lasted a heartbeat. Perhaps, another second drinking in his good looks wouldn't hurt, but as she leaned in, the door swung closed and erased him from view.

The air returned to her lungs. She locked the dead bolt four times and collapsed onto her back.

Who was he? How did he get the scar? What did he want? She replayed the potency of his voice, the strength of his arms, and the flaw in his flawless face. He was fascinating. Though to be fair, she hadn't been outside in two years. A stray dog might've been just as enchanting. Actually, what was more fascinating was that she was thinking about him and not her lost mail.

She sat up, her pulse redoubling. Her mail. Her fucking package. Goddammit, she couldn't go back out there. It was a guaranteed panic attack, one she might not survive. She gripped the middle row of knuckles and exhaled with each crack. If she didn't go back out there, she wouldn't have the dye to finish the leathercraft orders. She wouldn't get paid. Wouldn't be able to stop the water from being shut off.

She released a heavy sigh. She'd made it to the mailbox, albeit ungracefully and shamefully. She could make a few more steps to gather the packages. She rose, exhaustion weighing down her limbs.

God, her silly fears had such incredible power over her. Just a quick sprint right outside, and she'd have what she needed to finish her orders.

With a spike of courage kick-boxing her heart, she placed a trembling hand on the knob—

A fist pounded on the door.

She jumped, rattling her teeth.

“Amber?”

His voice shivered through her, and her breaths burst in and out. Why was he still here? Should she call the cops? Would they force her outside or to the station to make a statement? She faced the door and shouted, “Go away.”

More pounding. “Amber, if you want your mail, you're gonna have to open the door.”

Van narrowed his eyes at Amber's door as a restless vibration itched behind his ribs. What the hell was this girl's problem? And why was he so hypnotized? Was it her slap-it-hard, fuck-it-harder physique? The breathless waver in her voice? Or the challenge of not knowing what made her freak the fuck out?

Beneath her trembling, however, lay an assload of backbone. And a very, very fine ass. What if every torrid trigger that had ever set him on fire waited behind that door?

He dropped his brow on the weather-beaten frame and tilted his face toward the dark windows next door, his real reason for being there. Liv and the dick monk had moved to the other side of the house and out of hearing range. He should move along, too, return to his cold, empty cabin, and forget all about the fear widening Amber's gorgeous eyes.

And yet, despite the risk of being seen, he gathered the last of her mail and knocked on her door a second time. Christ, he was riding a vicious need to discover her secrets, a craving to break her apart and play with the pieces.

He knocked again and infused his tone with authority. “Amber.”

“You should run,” she shouted. “I've got a gun aimed at the door.”

Sure she did. “What kind of gun?”

“The kind that shoots ball-seeking super-bullets at unwanted visitors.”

Cute. Even if she owned a gun, she wouldn't be able to still her fingers long enough to pull the trigger. He released a slow breath, an attempt to expel the impulse to pop the deadbolt. He should leave the poor girl to deal with her demons, but instinct demanded he take control of this...of her.

He was the worst combination of his parents, his very blood blackened with human slavery. Hell, his moral code was fucking fried the moment he was conceived by a ruthless slave owner and a weak, used-up slave. Besides, it was easier to blame his DNA than to examine the decisions he'd made or, rather, the choices that continued to choose him.

A nice guy—like Saint NinnyBalls next door—would stop, but he ripped the edge of one envelope, slid out the document, and activated the light on his phone. “You should see this, Amber. Looks like your electricity is going to be shut off” —he skimmed the red print— “in five days.”

A thump jiggled the door. Her fist? “Opening peoples' mail is a federal offense, you sick pig.”

He smirked. Couldn't argue with the truth. “Don't insult pigs. It's dirty, and the pig likes it.”

“Until they're slaughtered,” she yelled, “and served with eggs and coffee.”

A smile tickled his cheeks. “You inviting me to stay for breakfast?”

Funny how brave she sounded behind the barrier of a door. A cheap door, in fact, given the hollow rattle and the sorry-ass lock. Didn't she realize one kick would bend it from the casing? He tapped the tarnished kick plate with his sneaker and made it clatter, just to taunt her.

“I'm calling the cops.” Her threat pierced through the door, but the waver in her shriek lacked conviction.

She wouldn't be calling anyone. Was it a general fear of people? Or something far more complicated? He leaned a shoulder against the jamb and thumbed through her bills and leathercraft catalogs. “What would keep a beautiful woman locked up in her house?”

His stomach hardened in anticipation of her voice as soundless seconds crawled down his spine. Her silence deterred him more than the door. What was she doing in there? Texting a friend? The friendly neighborhood delivery guy, perhaps? Or was she pressed against the frame, same as him? Was her hand on the knob? He didn't dare twist it. Didn't want her to flee deep within the house where he couldn't talk to her. Instead, he opened the largest package, ripping through the bubble wrap. Four bottles of...leather dye? “I'm waiting, Amber. What's the reason?”

More silence. He rolled the toothpick between his lips. If she didn't respond in three seconds, he'd simply move the mics to her windows. Three, two—

“Why does there have to be a reason?” Her voice reverberated through the wood, soft, close.

He shifted, his mouth hovering over the seal in the door, and matched her tone. “What's the leather dye for?” He turned the bottles in the envelope, revealing directions on how to dye shoes and furniture. “Fixing up a pair of cowgirl boots?” Fuck, those toned legs would radiate sex in a miniskirt and boots.

She growled, loud and guttural, and the door thumped again. “After I flay the skin from your body, I'm going to dye it and sew it into a handbag. Special order from your momma.”

A laugh erupted from his throat, and he darted a glance at Liv's windows. “Hate to disappoint you, gorgeous. My dead mother has no use for handbags.”

The door held as still as the quiet behind it. If she felt bad about his mother, she shouldn't bother. Isadora Quiso chose the slow death of crack over feeding and protecting her son. She could burn in hell.

“C'mon. Just open the door.” He dropped his forehead on the frame. What would he do if she let him in?

Fantasies spilled from the oily, malignant lesion that was his mind. He would take her was what he'd do. Strap down those toned limbs until they strained in agony and bury himself in her so deep she'd never be able to purge the stench of him. He was his father's son, after all.

Except Mr. E had not only enslaved and ruined his mother, he'd left her to rot in an El Paso
colonia
with her unwanted infant.

Van bit down on the toothpick, snapping it in half. He pocketed the pieces, his bitterness cursing at him to embrace his nature. The rancid bits of his life in that ghetto were inside of him. He wanted to pocket those, too.

Yet here he was, growing hard at the thought of ruining another life.

She'd grown too quiet on her side of the door. Had she decided to end the conversation and retreat to another room? He tightened his hands into fists. “Amber?”

The door jostled with her movements.

He sighed in relief. “Just give me one reason why you're holed up.” Give him something vulnerable he could break off and sharpen into teeth.

“I'll give you several.” Her tone was clipped, angry. “I'm allergic to pollen. I'm hiding a dead body. And I don't like you.”

There it was. She
did
like him. He hadn't missed her gape of appreciation when she'd shut the door. What she seemed to be oblivious to, however, was her enjoyment in their verbal scrimmage. But where was the terrified girl who could barely utter a sentence outside? She really put a lot of faith in that door. He grinned. “Maybe I'm the reason.”

“Mighty full of yourself.” Her volume rose. “Let me clear it up for you. Fuck. Off.”

He'd rather fuck
her
. And he would. The brick walls of her bungalow might've suspended her earlier panic, but it was a deception he could shatter with little effort. He could wait till she fell asleep and pry open the rear sliding door. A precaution he should've taken six months ago rather than assuming the house was vacant. He'd been careless, and now his favorite bench—and its view—was compromised.

Though, since the moment Amber had stumbled out, something had happened to his focus. “Are we done talking through the door?”

“What are you doing on my porch in the middle of the night?” She sounded tired, defeated.

“I was looking for some old friends and got the wrong house. You’re not exactly rolling out the welcome mat, but I kind of like here. It beats going back to an empty home.” It was more truth than he'd planned to share.

“You don't have—”

He pressed his ear against the wood, desperate to hear the rest of it.
Let it out, Amber.

“You don't have anyone...at home?”

His pulse hopped through his veins. His honesty had opened a precious doorway into hers. “No one, Amber. There's not a soul that cares if I live or would miss me if I died.” Maybe he'd laid it on too thick, but the truth was always denser and darker than shit.

The flooring creaked beneath her footsteps. Was she pacing? Considering another swine-related retort?

Finally, the creaking stilled, and her voice drifted over him, sealing her fate. “I'd like to make you an offer.”