“Get your shit together, man. You've got a month. Meet us at this restaurant. I jotted down the date and time.” Joshua shook the napkin. “Liv will feel less threatened if your girl is with you. So don't show up without her.”
He didn't like this numbnut dictating his schedule, but he buried his arrogance. “Liv won't agree to this.”
“She's scared, Van. But she'll be there. I'll make sure of it.” Joshua’s mouth tilted in a half-smile.
Well damn. Their relationship dynamic was baffling. Clearly, Joshua was a sexual submissive, but maybe he wore the pants when he didn't have a dildo in his ass.
He reached for the napkin, and Joshua snatched it back, eyes hard and assertive. “And stop stalking my girlfriend.”
“I don’t need to.” Nor did he want to. He grabbed the napkin and rolled up the window on the fucker's gloomy face.
Hope. It was just a tiny twitch in his chest, but it was there.
As he drove back to the cabin in Cedar Creek, that hope dwindled by the mile. He had a month to slay Amber's beast. His ears pounded. The more he thought about it, the more he wanted to slay it literally.
He turned off the exit and drove to the suburban house in Austin he'd visited a few times in the last three weeks. She might've been predisposed to the disorders, but they hadn't taken over her life until her stupid motherfuckering ex brutalized her from the inside out.
He parked in front of the two-story house and shut off the car. Residence of Brent and Tawny Piselli, insurance salesman and aspiring model. Proud owners of two yappy dogs and a sprinkler system. Only thing missing was the white picket fence.
He cracked his neck from side to side and tried to shake the tension from his hands. He wanted to kill both of them, but he'd promised he wouldn't harm her sister.
The picture window glowed with light from the sitting room, flickering with movement inside. Tawny's Audi wasn't in the driveway, and Brent always parked in the garage.
His pulse elevated, driven with a desire for vengeance. He burned for a fight.
My enemy isn't out there, Van. It's here. Right here.
Maybe Brent's death wouldn't help her, but it sure as fuck would release the burning misery built up behind his eyes. He wanted to dominate, to hurt. He wanted to fucking see blood. Fuck the consequences.
He flipped open the glove box, reaching inside for the pistol. His hand brushed the paper bag, crinkling it.
You would be a great father. Fierce and protective and attentive.
He would be a great inmate. A kidnapper, a rapist, a sex trafficker...a murderer.
His head hurt, and his damned body felt like a thousand pounds, every tense inch of it sinking into his stomach. He tore the bag off the doll and bent the legs to sit it on the passenger seat beside him.
You're trying to make a doll that doesn't break?
I've tried. They all break eventually.
Except the one Amber built.
The image of her soft smile and bright eyes shining through the railing invigorated him with a warmth that could only be connected to life.
Not death.
He didn't have to be a kidnapper, rapist, sex trafficker, or murderer. Not anymore.
He slapped the door on the glove box, closing away the gun, and started the car. He had a promise to keep and a sexy ass to beat.
The front door closed with a heart-jolting thunk. He made it home! Amber rolled off her back and scrambled on her knees to the railing. Clutching the wood spindles, her fingers ached with the physical and emotional strain of the last few hours.
The steady fall of leather soles on tile swished through her ears, centering her. Liv hadn't turned him over to the police. Huge exhale. Maybe he hadn't gone home with her. Deeper inhale. His beautiful, naked body wasn't in a bed right now, wrapped around the woman who'd given him a seven-year fever. He was home, safe. Hers.
His broad back came into view, and she trembled with anticipation. He'd lost the jacket, the black dress shirt stretching across his shoulders. He must've known she was watching him, but he didn't look up. Please, look up.
His casual gait veered through the great room, the tips of his fingers sliding across the sofa back and tapping along the edge of a desk, his powerful legs moving slowly yet systemically. He stopped at the center of the window wall with his back to her and stared at the drapes. His head tilted to the side.
Every muscle in her body turned to ice. “Van?” Her throat convulsed. “Van? How'd it go?” Oh, God, turn around, turn around. Please stop looking at those drapes.
He slid his hands into the pockets of his gray suit pants, the fabric hugging his tight, narrow ass. His feet spaced shoulder-width apart, his posture terrifyingly relaxed. “Tell me the worst thoughts you entertained while I was gone.”
His vibrating timbre was so low, so commanding, she melted into the floor. “I imagined you hauled off in handcuffs and how I wouldn't be able to come to you.”
“What else?” His baritone echoed off the two-story ceiling.
She swallowed. “I thought about...” She swallowed again, aching for him to turn around. “You and her...together.”