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Reese
You would’ve thought I was an Olympian, with the way I sprinted past Enoch, barricading myself in the first room I came to. Clearly, I didn’t think my escape through. If I had, I would’ve ripped out of Van’s grip and ran through the fields instead of the house.
At the time, though, the only thing going through my head was Van had betrayed me again. Not that he’s usually a saint, but I guess… I don’t know. Maybe I just thought, somewhere deep inside him, he really did come back for me, but you know, in his blackmailing way.
I thought him forcing me to marry him was his way of admitting he wanted to be with me, but now I realize I was wrong. Love doesn’t come freely. It always costs you something. “Flower.” A deep voice filters through the office door, where I’m currently hiding with my back in a corner.
“You have nowhere to go.” The asshole, my husband, is right. There are no windows in this room, and the only door is the one he’s currently at. At any moment, he could stop playing this game with me, unlock the door, and yank me out into the lion’s den, which he said was full of killers and men worse than him.
“I hate you.” My voice trembles, and it pisses me off. “I don’t know why I thought you could change.”
I can feel the deep rumble of his laughter vibrate the door. “Your naïveté has always amused me. For someone who has been abandoned more times than I can count, you still risk placing your faith in others.”
The blood in my veins rush with heat and rage. Before I realize it, I’m standing at the door, banging my fist against it. “Fuck you!”
“Tsk-tsk. Teacher doesn’t like us to use four-letter words on Sunday morning.”
“Does he like you forcing a girl out of her life and blackmailing her to marry you while threatening to burn her cat at home?”
I can feel the smile he wears in his voice when he answers. “He frowns upon it, yes.”
He frowns upon it?
That statement is so blasé. So I don’t give a fuck. So like Van Gogh.
Suddenly, the light that has been shining through the crack of the door is smothered out. It’s like I could feel his hand resting there, darkening my life once again.
“Everyone answers for their crimes, darling,” he coos, almost sensually, as if he can’t wait to atone for the things he’s done.
It’s a weird feeling, but then again, Van Gogh has never been traditional.
“As you know, I answered for some of those crimes for years, behind bars, in a cement prison.”
I roll my eyes—no, he can’t see them—and scoff. “Oh, you think you’re the only one who’s ever had a rough life? You think you’re the only one who suffered unnecessarily?” My voice rises as I struggle to contain the anger. “You think you’re the only one who lost their family due to someone else’s greed?”
I don’t exactly know what I’m doing, but I know that it’s not going to be what Van Gogh says. “Go away.”
“You know I can’t do that.”
“Sure, you can.” It’s called turning around and walking away. “You’re all too familiar with how it’s done, remember?”
His voice is playful when he says, “Do you mean when you had me arrested and I couldn’t meet you?”
I sigh. “This narrative is getting old, Van.”
“So is this door, Flower. Should I do us both a favor and kick it down?”
My breath hitches, and there’s a naughty part of me that is turned on by the thought of the tattooed arsonist kicking down the door, yanking me into a vicious kiss, and apologizing for all the hateful and manipulative behavior he’s shown me.
That’s clearly a fantasy.
Van Gogh never apologizes, nor does he want to kiss me. He’s made me one of his enemies, but unlike those who crossed him, I didn’t just lose my home to a fire. I lost my life to the arsonist.
“You know what, Van?” I call through the door, exasperated by this whole venture. “Do it. Kick the door in and show everyone here what kind of man you really are.”
The eerie silence is a warning.
I take several steps back from the door. If there’s one thing I know, it’s that Van Gogh doesn’t like to be challenged. To him, every crime has a consequence, and the only gray area is his own actions.
