But her dejected posture made his stomach sink. “Fuck the stupid meeting, Amber. We can attempt another one at a later date. Whenever you're ready.”
Her chin hardened. “Where's the man who broke into my house and fucked with all my stuff? Stop being gentle with me. Van. You're the only person who has ever given enough of a shit about me to shove me out the door.” She stood, fire sparking in her eyes, and pointed a finger at him. “I need you to shove me across the porch on my face if you have to.”
His heart banged against his ribs with furious agreement.
“We're doing this.” She squared her shoulders. “I'm doing this.”
But she was doing it for him and only because he would be there. If she failed, her devastation could be self-damaging, and he couldn’t allow that to happen.
He pressed his lips together and rubbed his forehead. She was a stunning, naturally-submissive, housebound, consensual slave. He should've been out-of-his-mind ecstatic. But if he had one regret in their two-month relationship, it was his stupid, selfish fucking mission to be her obsession. If he hadn't come into her life, maybe she would've lost her house. But more than likely, she would've landed on her feet because she was bullheaded and strong as fuck.
None of that mattered now. He'd fed her, protected her, controlled her every damned move, and in doing so, he'd robbed her of her self-reliance and replaced it with an unhealthy dependency. Him.
She blew out a breath and cocked her head, her eyes suddenly bright and mischievous. “I have an idea.”
Just like that, she brought a smile to his face. “Does it involve bleach and scrub brushes?”
She tapped her chin. “Hmm. I'm thinking gasoline.” Her eyes glimmered. “And fire.”
An hour later, he stood beside a well-fueled bonfire roaring twenty-paces from the cabin. The heat from the flames and the aroma of wood smoke had an old-fashioned way of fortifying the spirit and moving the psyche into a place of deep contentment.
He looked up to find her leaning against the doorjamb, just inside the back door. Her arms wrapped around her torso, her expression strained with panic. No doubt she wouldn't be stepping over the threshold. But beneath the fear lay a softness in her eyes, a kind of peaceful resolve.
She'd said the fire could burn away the past, melt the painful memories, and make room for transformation. It was worth the try.
He gave her one more questioning look, arching his eyebrow. Are you sure?
At her nod, he lifted the aquarium of tiaras and chucked it into the fire. The flames crackled and sparked, skittering red-hot embers across the ground. Metal and glass wouldn't disintegrate, but it would certainly fuse into an unrecoverable blob.
A glance over his shoulder rewarded him with a view more magnificent than a million fires, her smile as radiant as the iridescent glow of gems melting in her tiaras.
He reached for the garbage bag he'd sneaked outside, her words floating through his head.
It's just stuff attached to broken memories. Burning it will inspire new ones to grow.
By stuff, she'd meant her crowns, but he had memories, too. He removed the contents, her OhmyGod rippling the air as he fed the blaze with dolls. Two plastic bodies, brown hair, and a red-checkered dress vanished behind a black fog of smoke. It wasn't a cremation. It was simply the end of a life that hadn't been a life at all.
Looping his thumbs in his front pockets, he strode toward her with an easy, unhurried gait. Hope lightened his chest. It had been there for a while, but it strengthened as he took in the promise sparkling in her eyes.
Five days later, Van waited in the kitchen, chewing the ever-loving fuck out of a toothpick. He tossed it in the waste-bin and yanked at the sleeve of his suit. Come on, Amber.
That morning, he'd bought makeup, hairstyling crap, a black dress, and heels. And she'd been holed up in the bathroom with that shit for an hour. They needed to leave immediately to arrive at the restaurant on time.
Deep breath. Fuck, he was wound tight. But he wouldn't rush her.
Still, he hoped she was held up by a curling iron and not a change of heart. How could he not be hopeful about what the night could bring? It could crash through the agoraphobia as well as open a door with Livana.
Or it could end in tearful hyperventilation.
The bathroom door opened with a whoosh that sounded like the air rushing from his lungs. Sweet mother of sin, he'd told her cosmetics would defile the natural perfection of her face, but as she lingered in the doorway, shoulders back, arms at her sides, one long leg bent before the other, he stood tongue-tied and stupefied.