Chapter 39 #2
I close my eyes, the weight of everything crashing over me.
Of course he tracks me. I've known since I returned that his obsession runs deeper than normal.
The apartment he could see into, the job he orchestrated, the way he always knows where I am—I'd accepted it all as part of loving Vane Blackwood.
But seeing him torture that man, hearing the satisfaction in his voice as he planned prolonged suffering... that's something else entirely.
“I knew you watched me,” I whisper, wrapping my arms around myself. “I even found it romantic in some twisted way. But killing people, Vane? Enjoying their pain?” My voice cracks. “That's not something I was prepared for.”
“Because you compartmentalize,” he says, stepping closer. “You want the obsession without the violence, the protection without knowing what it costs. I wasn't going to let you pick and choose which parts of me you get.”
The vulnerability in my chest expands, making it hard to breathe. “I don't know how to love someone who does what you do. I don't know how to reconcile the man who holds me like I'm precious with the one who cuts off fingers.”
“We're going back home,” Vane says, his voice gentling slightly. “We can figure this out together.”
“No.” I plant my feet firmly on the thin motel carpet. “I need time to think. Away from you.”
His eyes narrow dangerously. “You don't have a choice, wildflower. Contract or not, you're coming with me.”
I shake my head vehemently, heart pounding against my ribs. “I'm not leaving my car here. I drove myself out; I'll drive myself back—if I even decide to come back at all.”
“My guys will pick it up tomorrow.” Vane reaches into his pocket, pulls out his keys, and dangles them. The green Kawasaki key fob catches the dim light. “You're coming on the back of my bike.”
The casual way he dictates my movements, as if I'm just another possession to be handled, ignites something primal in me. Before I can think it through, I'm lunging for the door, shoving past him with all my strength.
I hear his curse behind me as I burst into the night air, my feet pounding across the cracked asphalt of the parking lot. The woods behind the motel beckon—dark, dense, a place to disappear. I'm running blindly, fueled by rage and fear, my breath coming in sharp gasps.
I've barely reached the tree line when strong arms wrap around my waist, lifting me off my feet. I kick backward, connecting with his shin, but Vane doesn't loosen his grip.
“Let me go!” I scream, twisting in his arms.
He spins me around, backing me against a tree at the edge of the woods. His body presses against mine, pinning me in place as his breathing matches my own ragged pace.
“I love when you run from me,” he growls, his voice dropping to that dangerous register that makes my insides quiver despite everything. “Makes my dick hard, knowing I'll always catch you.”
My body betrays me instantly—heat pooling between my thighs even as my mind recoils in disgust. I hate this visceral response to him, this Pavlovian reaction that persists even now, knowing what he is, what he's done.
“I hate you,” I whisper, hating myself more for the wetness I can feel dampening my underwear. And for the fact that the opposite is true, no matter what this man is and has done, I love him—I always fucking have.
His mouth crashes against mine, hard and demanding. Despite everything—the horror I witnessed, the tracking, the lies—my body responds instantly. My lips part, welcoming his invasion. His hands grip my waist, pulling me closer as a whimper escapes my throat.
When he breaks the kiss, we're both breathing hard, my heart hammering against my ribs. His eyes gleam in the moonlight, that dangerous emerald intensity I've never been able to resist.
“You want to run, wildflower?” Vane whispers against my lips. “It's what you're good at, isn't it? Running from me?” His thumb traces my lower lip, his touch electric. “So run. And I'll chase you.”
I should be terrified. I should be disgusted. But the predatory hunger in his eyes makes my knees weak, igniting something primal inside me. This dark game between us—this push and pull—it's always been our dance, since we were seventeen.
My mind wars with my body. The memory of the warehouse flashes briefly, but then Vane's hand slides down to grip my hip, his fingers digging in possessively, and rational thought fades.
“You won't catch me this time,” I whisper, surprising myself with the playful challenge in my voice.
A slow, wolfish grin spreads across his face. “Ten seconds, wildflower.” He releases me, stepping back. “Ten seconds before I hunt you down.”
I don't wait for him to start counting. I bolt into the trees, my feet carrying me through the undergrowth, branches whipping past my face. Behind me, I hear his deep voice:
“One... two... three...”
In this moment, I'm not thinking about torture or murder or lies. It's just us—Vane and Lia—playing the same game we've always played. Me running. Him chasing. The inevitability of being caught.
“Ten!” His voice echoes through the trees.
My heart leaps with a giddy thrill as I push myself faster, knowing he's coming for me.