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But hearing him say the words feels different. It feels… real.
And yes, I understand I had to taunt him into admitting his feelings, but Van Gogh has the patience of a lion. He can sit for hours, watching his prey before he attacks. He stays calm and in control and doesn’t get flustered or deviate from the plan when his prey toys with him.
But he didn’t with me because that hard-headed man with his eight-pack of glorious abs loves me.
And as crazy as it is, I love him too—every mean and snarky inch.
I don’t care what anyone says, that’s true love.
Our love might be twisted, but it is a love that supersedes mistakes and misunderstandings.
My phone buzzes next to me where I lie naked in Van’s bed, covered with only a sheet that survived Van’s wrathful pounding. The man needed an outlet after admitting his love, and my vagina was happy to provide.
Blake: He’s agreed to meet with you. We leave early Thursday morning.
Eww.
Reese: That’s not going to work for me.
Van will kill us both.
Blake: It’s the only way it works, sweetheart. You either make it happen, or you don’t speak with my uncle. The choice is yours.
I hope someone bites his dick off one day.
Reese: Fine. I’ll be there.
Someway, somehow, I’ll make it work—I have to.
After deleting the messages—just in case Van gets nosy—I pull the sheet around my naked body and pad into the kitchen to look for Van.
“Anyone here?” I call out into the open space, hearing my voice echo in the vaulted ceilings. “Hello, warden?” I giggle at the term. I should have known behind all the threats, Van was a gooey, wannabe warden with an ass that looked as if it were sculpted from steel. He’s as much a threat to me as Biscuit is.
Shaking my head, I chuckle. I knew I loved this man for a reason.
He’s—
A buzzing noise interrupts my train of thought. I can’t quite grasp what it is, but it sounds familiar as I amble towards the back of the house to check it out.
Knowing Van, he probably paid someone to put bars on the door so he never has to worry about me talking to Blake again. That’s if he agrees even to let me go back to school again.
As we lay in bed last night, Van issued about two billion threats if I didn’t tell him what Blake and I spoke about. Of course, I didn’t tell him shit except that he could take those threats and shove them between his tight white butt cheeks. My business with Blake is not his concern. When I’m ready for Van to know, I will tell him. Until then, he’ll just have to continue to pound out his frustrations into my pussy like a good husband who… oh, my gosh.
My breath catches in my throat at the sight before me.
My husband is…
I blink several times, as if that will change what I see through the French doors: my husband, the vigilante, shirtless and on his hands and knees, pulling weeds out of the garden bed as he hums along to the radio. He looks like a true Southern gentleman ripped right out of a magazine.
What arsonist do you know cultivates a garden—a billionaire arsonist, at that? Van could easily pay a gardener to tend to his plants, but he doesn’t.He protects what’s his—that which enriches this world with a purpose.
He values life.
My heart feels too big for my chest. This man—this enigma of a man—is extraordinary.
He might be a hard-ass, scary motherfucker on the outside, but on the inside, he is protective and kind. I bet his mother smiles down from heaven every morning as she watches her beautiful boy-turned man, care for the most vulnerable. Heck, I’m proud of the bastard. He’s so much more than he lets anyone know.
“You know,” his voice pulls me out of my revere, “you could get a better look if you came closer.”
