Her scalp tingled with rising anxiety. Stop thinking about it. “I'm going to make your life hell.”
His head lowered to the pillow, his eyes closed. “My life is already hell. An eternal dark walk of the damned.”
A bit dramatic, but no question he was damned, as was she. But there was warmth in his dark walk. Intense warmth with rock hard arms that held her close. She couldn't figure him out and, at the moment, didn't have the strength to try.
“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.