With that, Flynn let me go. I’d been pulling back so hard, I stumbled back. Flynn was too much of a gentleman and already had his arm around me to steady me. But then he dropped his arm and let out a long miserable sigh.
“We’ve got that job to do very soon,” he said flatly, turning his back to me. “If you don’t come to me before then, I’m not coming back here after the job’s done. This is the only chance you’ll get, Vixen.”
But I was already rushing out of the bakery, shaking like a leaf. I didn’t look back once. I ducked into the clear alleyway between the stores and rested my back against the cool brick wall. I sucked in the fresh air, trying to get my heart to calm down.
How come I felt like I’d just betrayed Nixon?
Was this that Stockholm Syndrome shit again?
I rubbed at my chest. “Calm down, Victoria.”
I couldn’t look like a frightened mess when I got back. Nixon would know something was up and he would not rest until he figured out what.
Blood and snow and the feeling of being cold swamped me again. I shook, my teeth chattering with adrenaline. I worked so hard to push those memories away. Dear God, I didn’t need to remember what Nixon was capable of.
“Please, don’t kill me.” I pleaded.
“Why?” he asked, detached. “What do you have to live for?”
I brushed the tears from my eyes and waited for my heart to slow down. I buried the memories by focusing on my senses. I breathed in the scent of dough, stared up at the blindingly bright streetlight and skimmed my fingertips along the coarse brick wall behind me. Soon, the memories dispersed from my mind, scattering in random directions.
Then I stepped out of the alleyway and made my way back to the hotel. The breeze picked up. I could hear the leaves of trees rustling around me. I stared up at the sky, mesmerized by the stars.
Two years ago, I was a broke twenty-one-year-old student who didn’t give a shit about the stars. I used to think I was trapped then. Oh, how strange the world was.
I was slowly becoming detached from my past. I was scared that, as more time went on, I would forget myself entirely.
I shut my eyes briefly, fighting to reclaim my old self.
I’m Victoria Adams.
I’m now twenty-three years old.
I like pie crusts and pizza pockets.
I grew up in Surrey.
My best friend’s name is Kimberly Jones.
I want to be a teacher because Mom was a teacher and she loved kids.
I like going to the movies.
I hate going home.
Tom Hardy is my celebrity crush.
I cut myself to feel.
By the time I got back, I felt composed.
I found Nixon straightaway. I expected him to be pacing and twitching, but I was wrong. He was completely still. His back was to me, his hands were in his pockets again, and he was staring up at the sky too, unmoving.
I wondered what he thought of when he looked up at the heavens.
I thought of the fleeting sadness on his face in the restaurant, thought of him asking for my help, and my heart squeezed before I could stop it.
My body heated as I slowly approached. I felt this urge to run my hands up his back and kiss the back of his neck, but I resisted.
My heels were loud, and he heard me nearing. He slowly turned around and found me. His expression was clear, but I noticed the way his shoulders relaxed at the sight of me. He let out a long breath, and his chest dipped, like he’d been holding it in for a while.
He didn’t ask me how it was. We didn’t speak at all. He offered me his hand instead and I took it. His grip was tight – possessive – as he tugged me back to the hotel doors. He didn’t relax until we were in the elevators, and even then, I noticed the regret in his eyes as he looked me over in the mirror.
He’d made a mistake.
He shouldn’t have done that.
And he looked at me like I was his.
Only his.
And how dare he thrust me into the cold world he loathed so much.
18.
Vixen…
We stepped into the apartment, and I was bending over to remove my heels when he tossed over his shoulder, “Leave them on.”
I watched him disappear into the bedroom, aware he would be waiting for me. I stood up straight and gripped the kitchen counter, trying to regain my balance. My conversation with Flynn was still raw. I hated that talking about Nixon took me back there again, to that horrible day.
I tried to remember how terrified I had been of him, but I couldn’t feel it anymore. Because Nixon wasn’t punishing. He never wanted me to suffer. He’d never fuelled my terror. He’d watered down the flames until I was this rebellious little bitch.
Everyone feared him but me.
No, I thrived on pushing his buttons. I liked to see him contain himself. It riled me up to watch a monster hold back his claws, and he loved it too. Because he took it out on me when we fucked, and that was all we seemed to do.
Argue, then fuck.
Fuck, then argue.
Argue, then fuck, then argue.
He reappeared in the doorway of the bedroom, looking at me from across the apartment. I felt like he’d caught me doing something I shouldn’t. His eyes narrowed as he studied my posture. “Get in here, Vixen,” he demanded in a no bullshit tone.
I stood straighter, fixing him with a glare. “I didn’t know there was any rush.”
He slid his jacket off and tossed it on the nearby couch before levelling me with a firm stare. “I deserve a thank you.”
I crossed my arms stubbornly. “Thank you for what? For allowing me to take a walk outside? Wow, how grateful I am. I’m pretty sure corpses breathe more fresh air than I do.”
There was nothing playful in his expression. “Get in the bedroom and suck my cock, Vixen. I’m tired of waiting.”
He disappeared into the room again, silencing me. Oh, he knew what that did to my temper. Did he want me to rattle the cage I was in? Jailbreak the fucker all so he could open it back up for me to crawl back into?
I strode to the bedroom, fury in my veins. He was already naked in the centre of the unlit room. His face was tight when he turned to watch me come in.
“Are you removing my voice, Nixon?” I seethed. “Do you want –”
“Shut up,” he cut in harshly with a dark look. “Now I love your smart mouth, but I just want to fuck it tonight. No more talking. Give me some fucking respite, baby.”
My mouth screwed shut. He looked tense when he sat down on the edge of the bed, waiting for me to service him. He wouldn’t even look at me. There was no amusement, no anger, nothing but a tense man that looked like he was at the end of his rope.
I dropped my arms to my sides, aware as ever he needed me.
Tonight wasn’t about the push and pull.
Tonight he needed me to make him forget something.
I rubbed at my chest, irritated at myself for feeling warmth there. I had this desire to help him, to remove whatever tormented him, and that made me feel weak.
Here was a man who controlled every part of my life, right down to what I wore and where I went.
And here I was, falling into the emotional trap of wanting to care for him when he was down.
I wished I was strong enough to stomp away. A lesser feeling person would. Maybe the key to my freedom was not giving him respite when he needed it. He’d get sick of that, surely, and cast me out. I was happy enough never to turn him in; I was prepared to make up some bullshit excuse for my disappearance. Anything if it meant he left me the fuck alone.