Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 89228 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 446(@200wpm)___ 357(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89228 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 446(@200wpm)___ 357(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
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.
Leaning against the fridge opposite the mudroom, he stood in the dim glow of the stove light. Wearing black athletic pants, legs crossed at the ankles, arms folded across his bare chest, he studied her with a calm, unreadable expression. She swallowed hard and dropped her eyes. Jesus, even his bare feet were intimidating.
Who knew how long he'd been standing there, watching her? She'd been so caught up in her pity party he could've been there the whole time.
He didn't move or speak, his stillness thick enough to strangle the air. What if he made her leave?
That was when she felt it, deep inside, breaking free. Her missing backbone. It straightened her back and invigorated her with a thrilling rush of strength. If he didn't want her, he could...he could go climb a wall of stretched-out vaginas.
She met his eyes. Pale, piercing eyes that told her he knew her next four steps before she did. With her eyes, she said, Bet you didn't see this one coming.
She rose—gracefully and steadily, despite the burning in her legs—and walked to him. The proximity forced her to look up to hold his gaze. Arms relaxed at her sides, posture strong and proud, she smiled without force or agenda. She smiled because it felt right. “I've decided to stay.”
“Uh huh.” The corner of his mouth ticked up. “Too scary out there?”
She glanced over her shoulder, acknowledging the door, and looked back at him. “Well, there's that. And while I could continue to fight through it and maybe someday make it beyond the porch, I've lost interest in escaping.” She put the strength of her backbone in her voice so he would hear her earnestness in the most absurd, childish, fucked-up reason ever. “Because I like you, too.”
Van had perfected the pose of lazy nonchalance years ago, but as he leaned against the fridge, he embraced it for no other reason than fucking exhaustion. Of course, Amber would pit her fear of him against the agoraphobia. But the first night? Good thing he'd wound her hair around his fingers like little trip wires.
No one could say she wasn't tenacious, especially considering her willingness to risk another panic attack so soon after the last one. No sweat off his balls, though. He'd been too curious to stop her. Besides, it moved her a step closer toward acceptance of her new life.
So he'd followed her down the stairs, blending into the shadowed corners of the cabin as she fought her demons in the bathroom and kitchen. When she'd opened the silverware drawer, he'd been ready to stop whatever cleaning fest she might've been envisioning. Honestly, his cabin could use a good scrub, but not at the expense of the OCD thing. He wanted to shake up the disorder, not enable it.