Vanquish

by Pam Godwin

  His hands lowered and dangled between them. He didn't look up, didn't acknowledge her at all. “When he was done with my mother, he turned to me. I wouldn't let go of that doll. He was so goddamned strong I couldn't stop him from ripping Isadora out of my hands.”

  “Isadora? Your mother?”

  His head cocked, and his eyes narrowed in confusion on the broken doll between their feet. He squeezed his legs tighter against his chest, his body curling inward. He was shutting down.

  In a bold gesture, she reached out and placed her hand on his cheek, stroking her fingers through the thick hair above his ear.

  He shook his head, eyes on the floor, then leaned into her touch. “I'd named the doll after my mother.”

  There was no embarrassment or resentment in his tone, just...sadness. He loved his mother, that much was clear, and evidently that love wasn't reciprocated.

  A burn seared through her nose. She envied his devotion. She didn't know her mother well enough to love her. There'd been no connection, no relationship. Just illness. She rocked forward to her knees and wrapped her arms around his shoulders.

  His legs dropped, and he pulled her against his chest, speaking softly into her hair. “When he stomped on the doll, her body split in half, and the arms and legs tore off. Just like that, she was dead.”

  She rubbed his rigid back, her own muscles stiff with anguish. The attachment he must've felt for that doll amidst such a neglected, fucked-up upbringing... God, he must've mourned her. The doll. His mother. She glanced over his shoulder and took in the menagerie of brokenness with new eyes.

  It was tragic and beautiful and inspiring. She didn't know the depth of his suffering, but the coping, the struggle to self-medicate? She knew all about that. The memory of his doll had stuck with him, and he'd recreated his appreciation for it, clinging to the notion that he could somehow repair what had happened, that he could fix the past with the present.

  She didn't think that was possible, but what did she know? Just because she hadn't been successful at taking back her own life didn't mean he couldn't find some kind of peace in creating an indestructible doll.

  He adjusted her legs so that she straddled his lap and squeezed her chest to his. His arms were strong and immovable around her, his body a powerhouse of muscle. But she felt the scared boy in the hunch of his shoulders and the restlessness of his fingers gripping at the shirt covering her back. That little boy felt like her insides, fractured and hurting, lonely and scared, but brimming with the desire to love something or someone and to be loved.

  His cheek rubbed against hers, but his arms turned to stone and his chest expanded with a long, tense inhale. “After he smashed the doll, he pressed my face into the dirt and fucked me.” Her heart crushed instantly at the emptiness in his voice and the impact of his words. He released a slow breath and kissed her brow. “I came to grips with that a long time ago. He was the first but certainly not the last. For the next four years, many of her drug dealers turned to me when she was too stoned to put out. She OD'd when I was thirteen.”

  Amber held him tightly, her hug expressing what she couldn't with her voice. When he leaned back, his eyes were clear and searching. His gentle expression filled her with heartache, but she also felt a strong surge of something else. “I'm proud of you.”

  He cupped her face, his thumbs caressing her cheeks as his eyes followed the movement. “Mm. Not much to be proud of, Amber. By age thirteen, I was a whore just like her.”

  Her jaw stiffened, her words rushed and heated. “You were young. It was all you knew. And you broke free from it. You didn't let it kill you.”

  “Don't make excuses for it.” His eyes sparked. “I don't.”

  She wanted to argue, but his hard, domineering glare was back. She bit her lip, her mind swimming through everything he'd told her. “So you're trying to make a doll that doesn't break?”

  His gaze traveled through the garage, probing the broken body parts. “I've tried. They all break eventually.” He laughed. “I'm convinced their hollow bodies are filled with mysterious energy, just waiting to cave in. Like dark matter. Can't fuck with science.”

  She stroked a finger over his jaw, savoring the connection. “Dark matter holds the universe together.”

  His lips twitched. “It also threatens to destroy it.”

  Were they talking about the dolls or him? She pointed at the plastic woman and child sitting in the cabinet. “What about those two? They're not broken.”

  His eyes closed, opened, and he patted her leg, lifting her to her feet as he stood. “That's enough for one day. I've got shit to do.”

  More secrets then. She stared at their shiny blank faces, and they stared back, trapping their story behind painted lips. “You'll tell me when you're ready?”

  He nodded and led her to the door with light steps as if he'd shed the weight of the world. So why did she feel so heavy? It was admirable what he was doing, making and breaking dolls to redeem his childhood. To redeem his mother.

  But she wouldn't dress it up. He was her mirror in a way. They both carried a million cracks beneath the skin. Even under the stark light of the fluorescents, it was hard to see which of them was more broken. But for the first time, she felt like she had to vanquish her mental illness not for herself but for someone else. Because she was broken with him, and if she fixed herself, maybe she could make him a little less broken, too.

  The first twenty-four hours in Van’s cabin had been both terrifying and eye opening. Amber’s surroundings and the man she shared them with challenged the routine and order she desperately clung to. Her world had become a state of nonlinear catastrophic exasperation.

  As the hours bled into days, the next three weeks were very much the same. Every day was just like the first, the punishments and the tenderness, the panic attacks and the sex. She made his life hell, and he whipped her for it. She adored him, when she didn’t hate him.

  He followed through on his promise to be as messy as she was clean. When she scrubbed the shower walls, he coated them with motor oil. When she picked up his socks, he decorated the house with tampons, tying the strings in knots so complicated she couldn't undo them.

  Three weeks with him made her fear a little less. She still couldn't face the outdoors, yet every day he forced her out. Sometimes, he required a single step on the porch. Most days, he hauled her kicking and screaming to the tree where he whipped her and fucked her into an adrenaline-induced state of elation.

  But as the weeks passed, she could still feel that intangible thing in her head, scratching against her brain like it wanted out. Something else lived in there, too, making her anxious. Her dependency on routine and straight lines was shifting. She was becoming too centered on Van.

  She was aware of it, knew it was unhealthy, and still she listened for his footsteps and watched his expressions with a pounding heart. Whenever he left the house to jog in the woods or run errands, she awaited his return with an uneasy amount of panic.

  Then there were his secrets. How did he get his scars? Why did he keep those dolls in the glass cabinet? Why wouldn't he tell her? She'd developed a new obsession, a dangerous one.

  On day twenty-four, she sat alone in the garage at the worktable and tied off the final stitches on a doll. The body was made of leather, strong and durable, and stuffed with wool batting. She'd glued and sewed the plastic limbs and head to the leather torso. Van had painted the face with red puckered lips and twinkling blue eyes. The long straw-colored hair had taken him hours to weave.

  She finished it off by dressing it in a blue gown with yellow bows. When she held it up for inspection, a feeling of breathlessness came over her as heat radiated through her chest. Try to break this one, Van.

  She hopped up, carrying the doll with her, and stopped at the display cabinet. The angle of the light cast her reflection in the glass door. She guiltily tugged up her shirt and revealed her tummy. Having neglected her purging habit in Van's ever-watchful presence, she'd gained weight. A
t least six pounds, maybe more.

  Bile simmered in her throat. She tucked the doll under her arm and pinched her hip, a repulsive hunk of flesh. Saliva burst through her mouth, overwhelming her with the sudden need to spit. She clamped her lips closed, fighting it.

  Maybe he wasn't telling her his secrets because he'd lost interest in her. She hadn't made much progress combating the OCD, and she fought him every day when he dragged her outside. That must've been it. He was tired of her.

  With her self-berating thoughts banging in her head, she left the garage in search of him. To show him the doll, to hold him, kiss him, talk with him, it didn't matter. She needed his strength and their connection.

  When she stepped into the kitchen, she slammed to a halt. He leaned against the counter, sipping a glass of tequila, dressed in a suit. His strong, freshly-shaven jaw and thick, dark hair were just two of the countless traits that made him painfully attractive. He wore a narrow black tie and black button-up shirt beneath a suit that matched the striking color of his pale gray eyes.

  The spice of his cologne reached her nose, seductively tempting her arousal. And taunting her insecurities.

  Did he want to go on a date? He knew she couldn't. Oh God, she couldn't. She bit down on her cheek. Stop being so self-absorbed. Maybe this had nothing to do with her.

  She swallowed her dread. “You look...Wow.” She wanted to eat him. She laid the doll on the counter and reached up, adjusting his collar and stroking her knuckles over his jaw. Then she slid her palm down his tie. “Why are you dressed up?”

  He drained the glass of tequila and set it beside the doll. “I'm going out.”

  A cold fever flashed through her cheeks. Dressed like that? A date with someone else? Her hands shook, and she gripped them behind her back. “Where?”

  His eyes, God those eyes, pierced through her like knives. Then he sharpened the cut with his answer. “I'm going to see Liv.”

  Probably an inappropriate time for Van's cock to get hard, but fuck him, Amber's jealousy was as sexy as her tight little body. He leaned against the kitchen counter, shoved a hand in his pocket, and gave his dick a firm pinch, not that it helped.

  Her jealousy, however, was bred from her poor self-worth, which was the root of the bulimia, the need for perfection, and the avoidance of outside.

  She held her composure admirably, but that didn't mean her insecurities weren't bursting at the seams. Her hands were behind her back, so he leaned in, straining to hear the crack of her knuckles. The popping didn’t come, but her cheeks flushed a lovely shade of pink. And was that a growl in her throat?

  Somehow, she pulled off a pleasant voice. “Why would you need to see her?”

  Because his daughter was growing up without him. Because his infrequent visits to Liv's window over the past three weeks weren't turning up any information. There'd been nothing on her possible connections with the cartel or FBI; nothing to tell if she was using those connections to trap him in the event he attempted to contact their daughter.

  His involvement in Mr. E's operation was still unknown to authorities. If he surfaced, it would threaten his freedom and ironically Amber's. Liv would rat him out if she sensed even a hint of danger with regard to their daughter. Prison was not an option.

  The one thing he wouldn't do was take Livana from her stable life with Mr. E's widow. Despite his history with kidnapping, he would never do that to his daughter. Fuck, he just wanted to be a part of her life and needed to make sure Liv understood that.

  He turned the glass of tequila on the counter round and round as he collected his thoughts. Telling Amber about his purpose with Liv meant revealing his parenthood and exposing the looming reason he'd taken Amber, why he'd worked so hard to help her conquer the disorders. She would eventually find out his intention to use her as a character reference with Liv. How would she react to that? Would she think he was using her? Was he?

  He used her body for his pleasure, and he depended on her strength to be a better man. But most days, it was a damned struggle to reconcile his goal with all the sentimental crud sticking to his heart. He was so wrapped up in Amber, adrift in the most thrilling moments of his life, he'd lost his bearings.

  Amber’s health and happiness were as important to him as his daughter’s was. In fact, his goals with Livana had become secondary to his relationship with Amber. And that scared him to fucking death.

  As he stared into the worried brown eyes of the woman he'd come to adore more than any person in the world, he realized she owned him as much as he owned her. He clung to that heady, full-body feeling because it infused his every thought with hope.

  It was also turning him into a cherry-scented, floaty-hearted sissy fuck.

  Why did he need to see Liv? He twisted his lips into a charming smile, but the effort hurt. “She has something I want.”

  At an arm’s length away, she glanced down at her tits, then her hips, and looked away with a pained expression. No doubt she'd filtered his words into something like Liv has something you don't have. She was oblivious to the effect she had on him. How could a woman so fucking beautiful be so damned blind?

  Good thing he had some time before he needed to leave. “You'll be punished for that.”

  Her gaze jerked back, and she crossed her arms. “What the fuck did I do?”

  “I want you to answer that question, and after your punishment, I might” —he drew out a long breath, letting her mind flicker through the possibilities— “allow you to come.”

  “You're an asshole.”

  “Noted.” He was delaying the eminent conversation regarding Liv, but toying with her was a delicious distraction. He rested his ass against the counter, tilted his head back, and stared at the ceiling with a dramatic amount of interest in the white brush-strokes. She would tell him why he was punishing her eventually.

  She tapped her fingernails on the counter, blew out some heavy exhales, and stomped her foot twice. Not four times. “Fine. I don't know what you want from Liv, but it makes me feel” —she groaned— “inadequate.”

  He awarded her honesty with the full commitment of his gaze. “Be specific.”

  She pinned her lips together, fisted her hands on her hips, and glared at her feet. “Jesus, you're annoying.” She peered up at him, then back at her feet, and mumbled, “My boobs—”

  “I can't hear you.”

  She huffed then hardened her voice. “My boobs are fake and plasticky. She's probably beautifully natural.”

  He hooked a knuckle beneath her chin, lifting her face to capture her eyes. “She's both beautiful and natural” —her jaw stiffened, and he squeezed it— “but she's got jack shit on a beauty queen.”

  Her chin pressed down on his hand, stubbornly and uselessly.

  “What else?”

  She shifted her weight from foot to foot. “My hips are fat.” Her voice wobbled into a seething shout. “And that's your fault!”

  There it was. He'd been waiting for it. Bulimia was the quietest of the disorders, the one they hadn't discussed since her first day here. But he never left her alone until her food settled, strictly limiting her opportunities to puke.

  He crouched at her feet and gripped her thighs beneath the short skirt, lifting the hem to her waist with the slide of his hands. “You're done with your calorie-counting world of size zero.”

  “There's nothing wrong with size zero. Runway models—”

  “If you want to look like a starving creature, you better have drool clinging to your chin and your mouth reaching for my cock.” He leaned forward and sank his teeth into the flesh on her thigh.

  She jerked in his hold, and he bit down ruthlessly into her flexing quad. If she'd gained any weight at all, it was muscle. She was a fucking machine during their morning workouts.

  He kissed the two half-moon indentions he'd given her and pressed his nose against her bare pussy. Christ, he loved that she didn't have panties at his house. As he breathed in her sweet scent, her hips trembled beneath his gr
ip. It had only been two hours since he'd fucked her, yet his cock was as stiff as the night he'd met her.

  He lowered the skirt and stood. “Wipe your mind of all your preconceived notions of how you think I see you.” He touched her cheek and really looked at her, the glow of her skin, the dark fall of hair around her shoulders, her sultry fuck-me lips, and the rise of her full tits. Defined biceps, slender throat, petite nose, everything about her ensnared him. He could stare at her for hours, losing himself in her beauty. He brushed her hair behind her ear. “How do I see you, Amber?”

  Her eyes were bright and glassy, peeking up at him through dense lashes. “You think I'm...pretty.”

  Not the word he would've chosen for the exquisite view before him, but it pointed her the right direction. “Good girl.” He kissed her softly, happily, humming his contentment. “Now you can ask your questions.”

  She fingered the lapels of his suit jacket, sliding her hands up and down the folds of finely woven wool. “What does Liv have that you want?”

  “Mm.” He fisted his hands behind his back. Stop delaying, dickhead. “It's time to visit that display cabinet.”

  She arched her eyebrows. “You're ready to tell me?”

  Fuck no. “Yeah.”

  He led her to the garage, loosening the tie and rubbing his tight neck. He'd practiced how he would tell her for weeks, but as they stood before the lifelike reminders of the family he'd longed for, his carefully composed speech disintegrated, and his polluted heart clawed out of his throat.

  “In thirty-three years, there have only been four people I've given a shit about, that I'd even consider putting before myself.” He opened the glass door, his mouth dry. “The first two didn't love me back.”

  “Your mother and Liv.” She stated it not as a question but as a realization as she stared at the dolls, her elbows tucked to her sides, her fingers trembling on her bottom lip.

  He touched the hair on the mannequin, his token of Liv. But as the soft strands slipped through his caress, he didn't feel the usual heaviness in his chest. Instead, his pulse raced with nervousness. He hadn't intended on telling her about the hair, but he longed for her to accept all the ugly parts of him.