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, sleeping, 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.