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)
He hadn't even begun. “If that's what you think.”
Her eyebrows pulled together as she returned to her dye. “I'm almost done,” she mumbled. “Then it'll need a few hours to dry.”
And he needed to poke around, unsupervised. “Got anything to drink?”
“Juice and beer in the fridge. Tequila under the sink.”
He moved toward the door. “Want anything?”
She glanced over her shoulder, eyes on his gloved hands. “No, thanks.”
Smart girl, but not smart enough.
In the kitchen, he opened every cabinet and drawer and found the same diabolical order as the rest of the house. Condiments and plastic containers grouped in fours, organized by size, labels facing out. Same thing in the fridge.
He poured two fingers of gold tequila. Cheap stuff, but even a watered-down mixto pretending to be tequila was better than domestic beer.
Drink in hand, he slipped into the sitting room and made a beeline to the books. When he'd sought out his victims as a human trafficker, he'd been bound by the contract of the slave buyers. Gender, hair color, body type, temperament, everything had a requirement. Now, he was free to choose whom he wanted for his pleasure, and tracking, watching, and studying a quarry was the most exhilarating part of a capture.
He had no reason to enslave another person again, but he couldn't fight his nature forever. Would Amber be an adaptable slave? Would she be missed? Did she have any nasty secrets he wouldn't be able to work with? Who was Amber Rosenfeld?
His investigation began with the top shelves of her bookcases, which held hundreds of hardbacks. Stacked in a repeating pattern of vertical and horizontal groups of four, the covers featured moonlit mansions, bloody handprints, shadowed doorways, and demonic eyes. While the horror collection was unexpected, the alphabetized order wasn't. His fingers twitched, and his smile built.
It took him less than a minute to fuck up her program, swapping out books and rotating some upside down. As he switched the final books, one of the flaps opened, revealing a signature and a personalized message. For Paul, with best wishes.
Something pinched in his chest. Who the fuck was Paul?
He opened another. To Teresa. He released a breath. The next five he checked were also autographed and personalized to random somebodies.
He gnawed on the toothpick, his mind racing. Did she steal from people's autographed collections? Why would she do that?
Crouching, he inspected the spines on the lower shelf, which was hidden behind a leather ottoman. He shoved it aside, and the font on the spines told him these texts didn't contain stories of ax murderers and ghosts. He leaned in closer to read the titles, and oh baby, there she was, all laid out in a dozen manuals.
Break Out Guide for Shut-ins. Face Your Phobia. Imperfect OCD. Living With Agoraphobia.
OCD was a term he knew, and one that had been scraping at the back of his mind since he'd walked in. But what the fuck was agoraphobia? He cracked open the text Out Without Fear and flipped to the first page.
Agoraphobia is an anxiety disorder in which a person has a fear of being in open places where it is hard to escape. The individual might feel embarrassed, helpless, or trapped, and the intense fear can manifest into a panic attack. Agoraphobics avoid attacks by restricting or completely eliminating activities outside the home.
No shit? That solved the mystery behind her meltdown outside, and maybe why she'd run from the door when she unlocked it. He skimmed a few chapters as a weird mix of emotions clumped in his stomach. Part of him felt bad for the girl, a quaint feeling to be sure. If he were a fucking pansy, maybe he'd explore that. Instead, he focused on the sharper, more familiar sentiment that clung to his gut.
He wanted her vulnerability. To use her body. To bleed off the pent-up shit inside of him. To fill the emptiness. To get his fucking mind off Liv Reed.
Amber was the one he’d been waiting for, and considering the irony that she lived right next door to Liv, maybe Amber had been waiting for him.
Van knew the risks in kidnapping all too well, but taking an agoraphobic outside her door? Christ, that was a new one. Were there medical considerations? Would Amber keel the fuck over and die from an aneurysm?
Wait, why did he care if she had seizures and shit? Because he didn't want to kill her. If he managed to successfully move her, she probably wouldn't even try to escape. His muscles swelled with heat just thinking about her locked in his house. Locks optional?
The swoosh of the bathroom faucet interrupted his romantic thoughts, followed by the approaching click of her heels.
“What are you doing?” Her horrified whisper sent a quiver of pleasure down his spine.
Just to rile her a bit more, he didn't stand, didn't turn to acknowledge her. Instead, he pocketed the toothpick, lifted the glass of mixto tequila from the shelf, and drained half. He took his time, drawing out the tension that wafted from her, savoring it. Unlike the piss burning his throat. Lighter fluid would've gone down smoother.