She trailed her fingertips over the back of his hand where he cupped her breast, to soothe him, to reestablish their fucked-up connection. “I thought you’d taken a permanent vacation.”
He sank his teeth into the side of her throat, not enough to break skin, but the sharp pinch stole her breath and raised her on tip-toes. One shift of his hand and he could break her neck.
She leaned into the bite. “Did you come back to kill me?”
His arm and teeth released her with a jerk. She fell forward, righted herself, and spun with the gun raised in both hands.
Three days of stubble darkened his jaw. His steely eyes were void of their usual glint, sagging beneath his hood. His smirk seemed forced as he slid a toothpick in his mouth. “You’re the one pointing a gun.”
She aimed at his chest. His jacket concealed the strength of his body, but she knew every muscle, every twitch, every scar. He’d taken her virginity, trained her as a sex slave, whipped her, fucked her, and loved her. She wasn’t any different from him. With one exception. She responded to the word No.
The light in the doorway behind him rippled. She didn’t shift her eyes, fearing it would give away Josh’s presence. To distract Van, she backed to the wall, until the length of the room separated them, and jerked her chin at the dolls. “Do they mean you won’t be pulling my hair anymore?”
“I won’t have a choice.” He searched her face longingly, desperately, as if collecting every detail into a special pocket of memory made just for her.
I needed something to remember you by.
She shivered and steadied the gun. “Why did you come back?”
The heat in his eyes said, To fuck you. His suspicious non-answers said, To kill you.
“Just say it, Van.” If she shot him, Mattie was dead. If he killed her, Josh would kill him. Mattie was dead either way.
“I’m sorry about your mom.” Sincerity wrinkled the skin around his eyes, but his voice was a monotone hum. His lips clenched on the toothpick, flattening into a line. His gaze hardened.
He was planning something cruel. Her molars sawed together, her nerves stretching. She bit down so hard on her cheek the taste of copper filled her mouth. “You murdered Mom.”
His face clouded, his timbre scratchy. “I’m sorry. I…” His expression blanked. He reached behind his back.
Jesus, he was going to kill her. Her heart stopped, and her finger slid over the trigger.
Time throttled into a series of choices, measured by the slam of her heart and the cascading motions that followed. Van tugged at something in the back of his jeans. She squeezed the trigger, and Josh yelled, “No!”
The recoil reverberated down her arms, and Van stumbled sideways.
He slumped against the bar. A dark circle of blood spread on the shoulder of his black t-shirt. He frowned at the crumpled paper in his hand, and the toothpick fell from his slack mouth.
“Oh, God.” Her voice was an echo in her fuzzy head. She lowered the gun, blinked. He hadn’t been reaching for a weapon.
He laughed, coughed. “I deserved that.” His legs slid out from beneath him, and he toppled to the floor.
Josh skidded through the room, tucking his gun in his jeans, his panic jolting her to move. Numb with shock, she handed the gun to him and knelt beside Van.
A river of blood soaked his shirt, coursed down his arm, and pooled beneath him. He lay on his back and peered up at her with the most heart-breaking expression on his contorted, beautiful face. No hint of anger or blame. It was as if he knew he was dying, and he was okay with it.
She pushed his hood off his forehead and cupped his damp cheeks. “You killed my mom. I thought you were going to kill me.”
He shook his head in the frame of her hands. “Tried to save her.” His chest heaved. “Drove…wasn’t fast enough.” He gripped her wrist and held her eyes, his nostrils flaring. “I was too late.” His eyebrows clenched together, and his breaths rushed out as he squeezed his shoulders against the floor. “I’m sorry.”
A low, agonizing hum vibrated her chest. He wouldn’t lie about that, and the realization tore through her in a barrage of buckshot. “Oh no, Van.” Her chest convulsed, and a sob climbed her throat. She stroked his cheek, staring at the blood soaking his shirt. “Oh, God. What have I done?”
His eyes fluttered closed for a moment and snapped open, glassy with pain. “It’s okay. There’s no—” His spine arched, and he moaned. “No contract.”
She gulped at the thinning air and pressed her hands to the bullet hole. “No contract? No hit man to collect on your death? Or Mr. E’s?” She glanced at Josh, his eyes wide and locked on Van.
“A bluff.” The corner of Van’s mouth wavered as if attempting a smile. Sweat trickled down his temples. His gaze landed on Josh, and his lips bowed downward.
A bluff. She knew Van’s coercions intimately, and this wasn’t one of them. He would never fuck around with Mattie’s life. Tears rose up and burned trails down her cheeks. “If he doesn’t hire hit men then who killed Mom?”
“He arranged it.” His voice quaked. “His job—” His chest caved in, and his teeth snapped together in agony.
Warm streams of red pumped over her fingers. The steel in his eyes dulled, his complexion a pallor of white. He was losing too much blood. Josh disappeared behind the bar, banging things around in the cabinet.
The paper crinkled in Van’s fist. “You love him?” His chest stilled as if he weren’t breathing at all.
She didn’t glance away as she nodded, slowly, confidently. If anyone understood the connection between captor and captive, he did.
He closed his eyes and released a slow, easy breath.
Josh returned with an armful of dish towels, pressed them against the wound, and lifted Van’s shoulder to see beneath his body. Van hissed, his lips pulling away from clamped teeth, his eyes rounding in shocked pain.
“There’s no exit wound.” Josh lowered him to the floor and held the towels in place.
She caught Josh’s eyes, and they shared a harrowing look. The bullet was still in there. She reached in her back pocket and handed him the phone. “The code to unlock it is 0054. Call 911.”
“No cops,” Van murmured. He raised the wadded paper in his hand. “He’ll know.”
She flattened the edges of the news clipping, watching at Van’s shallowing breaths, and read the first sentence of the article.
Austin Police Chief, Eli Eary, stood at the podium during a recent celebration to honor his career…
“Mr. E.” Van’s voice jolted through her.
Her veins seized with shock, her body shivering. “Eli Eary? The police chief who handled my disappearance? He’s Mr. E?”
Van nodded, his hand gripping her knee. “My dad.”
She choked, her throat thick with tears, panic sprinting through her blood. She gave the paper to Josh and wrapped her hand around Van’s cold, sweaty one. Her thoughts wheeled violently around the axis that was her arrangement. “That’s why he gave me to you, why he’s so lenient with you.”
It also explained why Mr. E hadn’t punished him for his stunt at the intro meeting with Camila. He’d simply banned him from future meetings and deliveries.
Van’s eyes flashed, his voice straining. “He turned me into…this.” His lips curled into a weak snarl. “He killed your mother. I never—” He coughed and slapped a hand over Josh’s, adding pressure to the towels. “My mom was one of his.”
“One of his…” She searched his red-rimmed gaze and found a haunting, deeply rooted pain. “She was a slave?” She looked at Josh, seeking his reaction and perhaps his comfort.
Josh pressed one hand on the towels, the other settling on her back. His gaze formed a grim mirror of her own, creasing at the corners.