Chapter 21
RILEY
I’m in the shower, letting the water run hotter than necessary over my body. The heat reddens my skin and turns the small bathroom into a steam room.
Between my legs, I feel a dull tugging. It’s not unpleasant; it’s more like a memory Vaughn wrote onto my body that he reads back to me with every move I make.
In the last three days, we’ve slept together more times than I’ve had dates in my entire life—which, admittedly, isn't a particularly high bar when the number is zero.
What I didn't think about at first, but can't get out of my head now: we never use a condom.
Not even this morning, when he stood behind me in the kitchen, slid his hands under my T-shirt, and we went at it on the counter between cold coffee and toast crumbs.
No discussion, no question, no hesitation.
Just his body in mine, without a barrier, without protection.
I turn off the faucet and reach for the towel.
The thing is: Vaughn Mercer plans everything.
He prepared this kidnapping for a long time.
He bought a house in the desert, got clothes in my size, stocked up on three months of supplies, and tricked me into a postnuptial agreement that was probably pre-vetted by ten lawyers.
This man plans which socks he’s wearing tomorrow.
In Vegas, he used a condom. I remember the sound of the wrapper, his fingers rolling it on. That was part of the plan. Controlled. Thought out. No risk.
But here? Something has changed here. Here, he’s lost control, just like I have.
Or—and this is the more likely explanation—he hasn't lost any, because there is no risk.
Vaughn is in his mid-forties, nearly twenty years older than me.
A man who has dedicated his entire life to the goal of destroying my father.
A man who explicitly said he never planned for a family.
The only logical explanation for me is that he’s had a vasectomy. The word forms in my head with the clinical clarity of a mathematical equation. It makes sense. It’s the logical consequence of a life centered on revenge. No ties, no vulnerability, no children to be used as leverage.
Of course he’s had a vasectomy. Anything else would be negligent. And Vaughn Mercer is many things, but he isn't negligent.
I wrap the towel around myself and go into his room.
Our room, I correct myself. For several nights now, I’ve been sleeping here, in his bed, under his covers, against his chest. My own room at the end of the hall stands empty.
The mattress untouched. The door open, like a guest room waiting for a visitor who never arrives.
I pull on a fresh T-shirt and slip into my sweatpants. I study my face in the mirror. my skin has gained some color—the afternoons outside on the wooden bench have left a light tan that highlights my freckles. My hair has grown longer, the red strands curling in the desert air.
I look like a different woman.
Maybe I am.