Chapter 22
Van's hands shake as he grips the elevator rail, knuckles bone-white against the metal. The fluorescent lights cast harsh shadows across his face, and I can feel the tremors running through his entire frame like a wire about to snap.
"Look at me," I say firmly, stepping directly into his line of sight and placing my palms over his trembling hands. "Van. Eyes on me."
His gaze snaps to mine, wild and unfocused. The controlled surgeon from the hospital is gone, replaced by someone fighting invisible restraints. I can see him slipping back to that hellish compound where they tied his surgeon's hands while people died around him.
"We're safe now," I tell him, my voice steadier than I feel as I press closer. "Emma's stable. The gallery is secure. You saved everyone today."
The elevator dings, doors opening to our hallway, but he doesn't move.
His breathing is too fast, too shallow, and I watch him struggling to stay present.
The scent of hospital antiseptic still clings to his scrubs, but underneath it is his familiar scent: clean soap and something uniquely Van that makes my body respond even in crisis.
"Come on," I say, taking his warm, scarred hand and guiding him down the hallway lined with expensive art. "I need you to trust me. Can you do that?"
He nods once, sharp and military-precise despite the chaos I can see churning behind his eyes.
Inside our apartment, he stands rigid in the living room's luxury, scanning exits like he's expecting an ambush. His breathing is still erratic, and I can see phantom pain making him flex his fingers like he's trying to shake off invisible restraints.
"I don't need…" he starts, but his voice cuts off as his body betrays him with a violent shudder.
My heart hammers as I watch the flashbacks slam into him. His whole body goes rigid, and I know he's not seeing our apartment anymore. He's back in that compound where they restrained his hands while patients died around him.
"The hospital," he says roughly, running a hand through his hair. "When Carter was in the trauma bay, when I couldn't work fast enough to stop the internal bleeding from his head injury…"
He stops, shaking his head like he can physically dislodge the memories. But I know what he's seeing. The same ghosts that wake him at 4 AM, the patients who died while he was bound and helpless.
This isn't something I can fix with optimism or patient waiting. This requires something deeper, something that grounds him in ways words can't reach. Something that proves he can hold precious things without destroying them.
"Van," I say firmly, and something in my voice makes him stop retreating. "You're not weak. You're the strongest man I know. But even you don't have to carry this alone."
I'm about to try something that would probably horrify my therapist. If I had one. Which I probably should after this month.
I move past his resistance, my heart pounding as I drop to my knees in front of him. The position isn't about sex right now. It's about anchoring his scattered mind to something real and present, something that proves he can have control without destruction.
"Give me your hands," I say, holding mine out palm-up, steady and sure.
His eyes widen slightly, but after a moment's hesitation, he places his shaking hands in mine.
I guide them to my wrists, wrapping his long fingers around them like he's restraining me.
The familiar position seems to steady something in him, his breathing slowing slightly as he focuses on the warm reality of my pulse under his palms.
"Feel that?" I ask, keeping my voice steady despite the way my heart is racing. "I'm here. You're here. You're in control, and I'm choosing this."
His grip tightens on my wrists. Not enough to hurt, but enough to anchor him to something real. I regulate my breathing deliberately, making it deep and slow so he can match the rhythm. In this position, with my hands captured in his, he can feel my trust.
"I love you," I say quietly, the words spilling out for the first time. "I love you, Van. Not because you saved me, not because of debt or family obligations. Because you make me feel powerful when I surrender. Because you fight through nightmares to keep people safe."
His breath hitches, and for a moment his hands still completely on my wrists. I've never said it before. We've been dancing around it for weeks, but I've never been brave enough to speak it out loud.
"Carmela," he breathes, and there's something broken and beautiful in the way he says my name.
"I love you," I repeat.
"Christ," he rasps, his eyes going molten like I've just handed him something he never thought he deserved. "I love you too. Fuck, you have no idea what you do to me."
His grip on my wrists shifts, becomes more purposeful. The restraint transforms from desperate anchor to deliberate dominance, and I see the moment his scattered thoughts begin to coalesce around this one truth: he has me, he is running this, and I'm choosing to stay.
"Your trauma doesn't scare me," I continue, meeting his intense gaze. "It makes me love you more because I see how hard you fight to be good despite it."
I can see him finding himself again in the familiar dynamic.
His breathing evens out as he focuses on my response to his touch, the way I yield to him while never losing my strength.
This is how he processes the trauma. Through healthy dominance, through my willing submission that proves he can be trusted with something precious.
"You make the nightmares stop," he says, his voice gaining strength as his thumbs trace over my pulse points. "When I'm with you like this, when you trust me enough to let me hold you, the ghosts can't reach me."
He pulls me up by my wrists, positioning me exactly where he wants me, and I feel the shift as Van the broken soldier becomes Van the man who loves me. His hands are steady now as they move over my body, relearning that he can touch without destroying.
"The hospital today," he continues, his voice rough with emotion, "all I could think about was getting back to you. Not my suspended license, not the debt, not protecting Dom's sister. You."
When he guides me toward his playroom, his movements are deliberate, purposeful.
This isn't about his trauma anymore. It's about us, about the healing we've found in each other.
The expensive restraints mounted on the wall catch the low light, reminding us both that this room exists because he needs this structure, this proof that control can be given freely instead of taken violently.
His mouth claims mine with desperate hunger, and I arch into him, offering everything I have. The kiss is fierce, consuming, his tongue demanding entry as his hands grip my hips hard enough to leave marks. I want those marks. I want proof that this happened, that he claimed me completely.
"Strip," he commands against my lips, his voice rough with need and authority. "Now."
My fingers shake as I pull my dress over my head, letting it pool at my feet. His eyes devour every inch of exposed skin, and I see the exact moment his power solidifies. When I reach for my bra clasp, he stops me with a single word.
"Slowly."
I comply, unhooking the lace and letting it fall, watching his pupils dilate as my breasts are revealed. My nipples are already hard, aching for his touch, and when his gaze fixes on them I have to bite back a moan.
"Panties too," he orders, his voice steady now, grounded in dominance. "I want to see all of you."
I slide the silk down my legs, stepping out of them, completely bare before him while he remains fully clothed. The power dynamic sends heat pooling between my thighs, and I know he can see how wet I'm getting just from his commands.
"Fucking beautiful," he growls, stepping close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from his body. "Look how ready you are for me already. Your pussy is glistening."
His crude words make me clench with need, arousal dripping down my inner thighs. When he reaches out to cup one breast, testing its weight, I arch into his touch shamelessly.
"Please," I whisper, not even sure what I'm begging for. More touch, less distance, anything to ease the ache building inside me.
"Please what?" he asks, pinching my nipple hard enough to make me gasp. "Use your words, sunshine."
"Please touch me," I breathe. "Please make me yours."
He guides me to the restraint system, and I lift my arms without being asked, offering my wrists to the silk bonds. The trust in the gesture isn't lost on either of us. I'm giving him complete authority over my pleasure, my body, my vulnerability. Anything to help him through his darkness.
"That's my good girl," he murmurs, securing each wrist efficiently. "So eager to surrender to me."
The restraints leave me stretched and exposed, completely at his mercy. When he steps back to admire his work, I feel his gaze like a caress. My nipples tighten further under his scrutiny, and I can feel my pussy growing wetter by the second.
"God, look at you," he says, his voice thick with desire. "Spread open for me, dripping wet and ready. Do you know what you do to me?"
He strips off his shirt, revealing the scarred perfection of his chest, then works his belt free with deliberate slowness. When he pushes his pants down, his cock springs free, hard and thick and already leaking precum. My mouth waters at the sight.
"You want this cock?" he asks, wrapping his hand around himself and stroking slowly. "Want me to fill that tight little pussy?"
"Yes," I gasp, pulling against the restraints in my desperation to touch him. "Please, Sir, I need you inside me."
Instead of giving me what I want, he moves behind me, his hands skimming over my ass, squeezing and exploring. I feel his cock brush against my lower back, hot and hard, and I arch back trying to make more contact.