A painful wail tore from her lungs, her nails clawing his back. “What...what are you— No, I can't. Can't go out.” Her breathing came in choking stops and starts. “What are...you doing?”
He'd spent seven years breaking people. Could the same methods un-break someone? It would certainly make her think twice before puking again. “Punishment, darling.” He threw open the door and stepped outside.
She convulsed in his arms, totally missing out on the surreal skyscape, the fading mist of violet clouds, and the full moon ascending above the horizon of timber. As she strangled on her breathless protests, he strode toward the tree line and into the twilight of what might be the longest night of her life.
Amber's screams clawed their way into Van's heart as she flailed and sobbed in her wrist bindings. Fucking hell, why did he care? He wasn't an unfeeling man, but his emotions usually resulted in a ruthless, more external reaction, like a black eye on the person who caused them. This unexpected compassion smacked the damned sense out of him. What the hell was he supposed to do with that?
He cinched the last knot around the tree and recalled what he'd read about agoraphobia. Systematic desensitization was the term many articles used, and his takeaway was simple. Expose her to the phobia. Let her panic, watch her freak out, and don't let her give in to her response, which is avoidance.
It was supposed to be a gradual process, but easing into things wasn't his style. And while he could've handled Amber's punishment inside the cabin, she needed to learn how to cope with and overcome the fear. He wanted to become the habitual response she turned to.
His own purpose hadn't wavered. Helping her would help him. A whole, recovered Amber would prove he was a better man, that he could be a good father. If he succeeded, she would stand by his side and maybe even hold his hand when he met his daughter for the first time.
Hanging from a massive horizontal branch by her arms, she kicked her feet through the dirt, contorting her torso and gulping for air as if each breath were her last. A string of hyperventilating shrieks followed. Spasms shook her body, and the demon returned in the form of flinging spit and snapping teeth. “I hate you.” More heaving. “Fuck you.” Her teeth chomped at the air between sputtered insults.
He'd managed to dodge the majority of her rabid bites, but she'd sunk her canines into his arm twice before he'd securely tied her to the branch. She'd burrowed beneath his skin in more ways than one, and he couldn't help but treasure the imprints she'd left on him.
Her arms wrenched against the restraints, and her eyes rolled back in her head. “Oh God, it hurts. Take me back.” A howling wail. “Need inside, inside, inside...”
Her chant ebbed into a mumbo jumbo of hiccupping sobs and indiscernible words. He'd read that panic attacks could last anywhere from minutes to hours. Sooner or later, she'd wear herself out. Or pass out. The latter wouldn't save her. Not anymore.
When her ankles were locked down with rope and tied to the trees on either side with two feet of space between her feet, he checked her limbs for blood flow, making sure the cuffs weren't cutting skin. Then he stood before her in the spotlight of the full moon, made brighter by the beams of floodlights illuminating the yard.
Her body faced the woods, her back exposed to the swath of lawn between the cabin and the tree line. The placement gave him enough visibility and room to maneuver. He'd also hear the house alarm if the perimeter wires were tripped.
Strangled noises coughed in her bucking chest. She was beyond speech now, seemingly lost to the frenzy in her head. Brown ropes of hair clung to her frame in sweaty strands, her eyes bulging as she fought for every rasping breath.
Seeing her dark hair and agonized features flared a deep, long-buried memory. His mother used to wear the same defeated look before the drugged haze of detachment had permanently emptied her expression. He would not allow the same thing to happen to Amber.
He paced out eight steps behind her and tested the weight of the whip's handle. Shaking out the fall, he let the six-foot thong ripple over the ground. His target, in all her magnificent nudity, shook wildly before him. Her arms stretched over her head, secured by wrist cuffs and rope, and the muscles in her back bounced beneath the unblemished canvas of her skin. The stunning sight took his breath away.
He delayed a moment to clear his mind and refill his lungs. Then he bent and locked his elbow, moving his arm upward and flowing the whip out behind him. At the twelve o'clock position, he relaxed his arm straight down and released the plaited leather through the air with a crack.