The gash curved from the outer crease of his eye to the crook of his mouth. It should’ve impaired his confident gaze and brutalized the symmetry of his deep-set eyes and chiseled nose. It should’ve made her look away.
Instead, it demanded tolerance, homage even, and fortified the savagery of his beauty. He was a perfect imperfection.
Her ogling had only lasted a heartbeat. Perhaps, another second drinking in his good looks wouldn’t hurt, but as she leaned in, the door swung closed and erased him from view.
The air returned to her lungs. She locked the dead bolt four times and collapsed onto her back.
Who was he? How did he get the scar? What did he want? She replayed the potency of his voice, the strength of his arms, and the flaw in his flawless face. He was fascinating. Though to be fair, she hadn’t been outside in two years. A stray dog might’ve been just as enchanting. Actually, what was more fascinating was that she was thinking about him and not her lost mail.
She sat up, her pulse redoubling. Her mail. Her fucking package. Goddammit, she couldn’t go back out there. It was a guaranteed panic attack, one she might not survive. She gripped the middle row of knuckles and exhaled with each crack. If she didn’t go back out there, she wouldn’t have the dye to finish the leathercraft orders. She wouldn’t get paid. Wouldn’t be able to stop the water from being shut off.
She released a heavy sigh. She’d made it to the mailbox, albeit ungracefully and shamefully. She could make a few more steps to gather the packages. She rose, exhaustion weighing down her limbs.
God, her silly fears had such incredible power over her. Just a quick sprint right outside, and she’d have what she needed to finish her orders.
With a spike of courage kick-boxing her heart, she placed a trembling hand on the knob—
A fist pounded on the door.
She jumped, rattling her teeth.
“Amber?”
His voice shivered through her, and her breaths burst in and out. Why was he still here? Should she call the cops? Would they force her outside or to the station to make a statement? She faced the door and shouted, “Go away.”
More pounding. “Amber, if you want your mail, you’re gonna have to open the door.”
CHAPTER 5
Van narrowed his eyes at Amber’s door as a restless vibration itched behind his ribs. What the hell was this girl’s problem? And why was he so hypnotized? Was it her slap-it-hard, fuck-it-harder physique? The breathless waver in her voice? Or the challenge of not knowing what made her freak the fuck out?
Beneath her trembling, however, lay an assload of backbone. And a very, very fine ass. What if every torrid trigger that had ever set him on fire waited behind that door?
He dropped his brow on the weather-beaten frame and tilted his face toward the dark windows next door, his real reason for being there. Liv and the dick monk had moved to the other side of the house and out of hearing range. He should move along, too, return to his cold, empty cabin, and forget all about the fear widening Amber’s gorgeous eyes.
And yet, despite the risk of being seen, he gathered the last of her mail and knocked on her door a second time. Christ, he was riding a vicious need to discover her secrets, a craving to break her apart and play with the pieces.
He knocked again and infused his tone with authority. “Amber.”
“You should run,” she shouted. “I’ve got a gun aimed at the door.”
Sure she did. “What kind of gun?”
“The kind that shoots ball-seeking super-bullets at unwanted visitors.”
Cute. Even if she owned a gun, she wouldn’t be able to still her fingers long enough to pull the trigger. He released a slow breath, an attempt to expel the impulse to pop the deadbolt. He should leave the poor girl to deal with her demons, but instinct demanded he take control of this...of her.
He was the worst combination of his parents, his very blood blackened with human slavery. Hell, his moral code was fucking fried the moment he was conceived by a ruthless slave owner and a weak, used-up slave. Besides, it was easier to blame his DNA than to examine the decisions he’d made or, rather, the choices that continued to choose him.
A nice guy—like Saint NinnyBalls next door—would stop, but he ripped the edge of one envelope, slid out the document, and activated the light on his phone. “You should see this, Amber. Looks like your electricity is going to be shut off” —he skimmed the red print— “in five days.”
A thump jiggled the door. Her fist? “Opening peoples’ mail is a federal offense, you sick pig.”
He smirked. Couldn’t argue with the truth. “Don’t insult pigs. It’s dirty, and the pig likes it.”
“Until they’re slaughtered,” she yelled, “and served with eggs and coffee.”
A smile tickled his cheeks. “You inviting me to stay for breakfast?”
Funny how brave she sounded behind the barrier of a door. A cheap door, in fact, given the hollow rattle and the sorry-ass lock. Didn’t she realize one kick would bend it from the casing? He tapped the tarnished kick plate with his sneaker and made it clatter, just to taunt her.
“I’m calling the cops.” Her threat pierced through the door, but the waver in her shriek lacked conviction.
She wouldn’t be calling anyone. Was it a general fear of people? Or something far more complicated? He leaned a shoulder against the jamb and thumbed through her bills and leathercraft catalogs. “What would keep a beautiful woman locked up in her house?”
His stomach hardened in anticipation of her voice as soundless seconds crawled down his spine. Her silence deterred him more than the door. What was she doing in there? Texting a friend? The friendly neighborhood delivery guy, perhaps? Or was she pressed against the frame, same as him? Was her hand on the knob? He didn’t dare twist it. Didn’t want her to
