He rose, lifting her with him and standing her on her feet. His jaw was hard, his eyes equally so. “Now, we wait for Mr. E to come looking for Van. Or for us. And when he does, we’ll be ready.”

Her pulse kicked up in approval. She wanted him to color his words and fill her mind with images. His images. “Ready to do what?”

“To trap him and beat the ever-loving crap out of him until he exposes Mattie’s location. Then we’ll slice his throat from ear to ear.”

Hope spun around her, curling her lips. It continued to lift her through the night as he led her upstairs, fucked her, cuddled her, fed her, and fucked her again.

They remained in the safety of the attic for two days, waiting for Mr. E’s text, closing the door only when they were sleeping, planning and…exploring. The latter was a new experience with whips and ropes and creative sexual positions. She only egressed for food, and her sentinel was always an arm-length behind her. They never emerged unarmed. He carried his mom’s .22 in his hand. She carried the LC9 in the waistband of her jeans, wedged in her butt crack.

On the third afternoon, she crept down the stairs and stopped. Her toes touched the bottom step, illuminated by a glow of light. Josh bumped into her back.

Her scalp tingled. The hairs on her arms stood on end. The kitchen light didn’t reach the staircase.

Fuck, fuck, fuck. She stretched her neck to peer into the sitting room. The lamp drenched the dated decor in a sickening yellow wash. She never turned that damned lamp on.

Her heart thundered in her ears. Mr. E hadn’t sent her a text. He always sent a text.

She spun and pressed a finger against his lips, shaking her head. His eyes narrowed, his body vibrated, and his stomach hardened to stone against her hand. She drew the 9mm from her waistband, flicked off the safety, and turned back. Choking on the thickening dread in her throat, she stepped into the hallway.

With a final glare at the silhouette of aggression vibrating in the staircase, she pointed a finger at him and strode toward the kitchen with the gun at her side.

She tripped in the doorway, her heart stumbling with her breath. A mannequin sat at the table, a naked woman with a head of hair, holding a doll. All the blood in her face dumped to her stomach.

She scanned the corners of the room for Van, unsure what to do with the gun. Raise it? Conceal it? Should she go for business as usual? She held it at her side. Where the fuck was he?

Her eardrums throbbed, straining for the sound of footsteps. She positioned herself so that she could see behind the bar, the entrance to the sitting room, and the mannequin at the table. “Van?” She shouted loud enough to dissuade Josh from charging after her.

But what if it wasn’t Van? What if this was one of Mr. E’s games?

A few feet away, the brown marbled eyes of the plastic woman stared back at her. A painted red line connected one glass eye to the pink hand-drawn mouth. Propped on the mannequin’s lap, the doll was the size of a small child, clothed in a red checkered dress.

Liv’s scar tingled in her cheek, her muscles stiffening to the point of pain. Staring at the morbid reproductions of her and Mattie, she tried to keep the contents of her stomach from painting the floor.

Gut-twisting curiosity shuffled her feet forward. With the gun rattling in her hand, she slid her other hand through the sparse hair on the heads. Each strand was different from the other but also…the same. They varied in hues of brown, intricately combed together and sewn into some kind of mesh cap glued to the scalps. The fibers between her fingers weren’t glossy like synthetic hair. They felt thinner, some damaged, realistic…familiar.

She jerked her hand back, her stomach bubbling toward her throat. Oh God. Her hair. Why? Jesus, fuck, what did it mean? She pressed a fist against her belly, backed up, and slammed into a hard body.

A hint of cologne touched her nose. The width of torso was too big. She turned, but Van’s arm around her chest caught her, pinning her back to his chest. His hand squeezed her breast, and she sucked in a breath. If she shot him, the contract on Mattie’s life would be activated.

She pressed the side of the gun against her thigh to thwart the shaking in her hand.

His lips touched her shoulder, her neck, the scar, creeping goosebumps over her skin. “I know you don’t approve of them, Liv. But I needed something to remember you by.”

Chapter 39

“What are you doing with the gun, Liv?”

Van’s voice was a low, strumming pulse in her ears. But there was an unraveling edge to it that scared the shit out of her. She drew in a breath and hoped to hell Josh stayed out of sight.

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.