Chapter 9

C LARISSA

V ance’s grip on my arms is firm, but it doesn’t hurt. It’s how a parent might hold a belligerent child—gently, but he wants me to know he isn’t messing around.

I sigh, casting my eyes down. There’s something about Vance that makes me want to run both to and from him. The man is an enigma with a well-fortified web, and I am caught right in the middle.

“Look at me, Clarissa,” he demands, lifting my chin.

I’m lost in the deep blue of his eyes. The man is a work of art. His face is perfect in every way, matching the muscular frame of his sculpted body.

“What are you gonna do to him?” I stutter, my words failing me.

“Kill him.”

Vance says those words like I’ve asked a stupid question. To him, it’s the only solution. But the real shocker is that I wouldn’t care if Vance killed Roy. He deserves it after everything he did.

I only have one objection to Vance killing him. “I don’t want you to get into trouble.”

Vance rubs my bottom lip and smirks. “Little Bird, I’m not a man who gets into trouble. I’m the man that makes it. You don’t need to worry about me, but the person who dared to hurt you does.”

“His name is Roy Rogers. He’s the deadbeat piece of shit my best friend Emily got tangled up with. She always seems to get tangled up with assholes. It started with her father, and I hope to God, it ends with Roy. When we went to their apartment to pack her up, he came in and started going crazy. He punched her, and when I tried to get him off her, he lost it. He pushed me, and I hit the counter hard. It hurts like a bitch, but I think it’s heavy bruising, no real damage.”

Vance nods before walking to the bathroom counter and tapping on his phone. That’s when I notice it—a finger wrapped up in a white handkerchief, streaked with red. Blood.

I scream, falling to the ground as Vance drops his phone and rushes to me. His hands are frantic as they move over my body, his eyes consumed with worry and fear.

“Clarissa!” he yells, shaking me.

“Is-Is that a finger?”

Vance shrugs. “Yes. It belongs to the fucker from the club. The one who was harassing you.”

“He offered to buy me a fuckin’ drink, Vance. He barely touched me.”

“He touched you with that finger. So I took it.”

“You cut off his fuckin’ finger 'cause it touched my elbow?”

“Pretty much.”

“You’re certifiable.”

“I don’t like people touching my property. I told you that. I don’t share.”

I pull away from him, and my back hits the wall. I realize there’s nowhere left to go.

“I might be a nut job, but I’m your nut job,” Vance says with a wink.

“I’m here as your prisoner, Vance. You call me your property. I don’t have any power here.”

Vance backs away from me. His eyes search mine, looking for what, I’m not sure. This man does things to me I don’t understand. They say that fear heightens sexual desire, and maybe that’s true because I’m having inappropriate thoughts about him pushing me up against the wall and fucking me until I can’t think straight.

He pulls open a drawer, and I see the metallic gleam of a blade. He turns to me and smiles. “This is poetic in a weird, fucked up way.”

My heart stops. Is he going to kill me? As if he senses my fear, he offers a sad smile. “This isn’t for you, Little Bird.” He stabs the blade into the area on his left arm bare of tattoos. “This is for us.”

I watch in horror and fascination as Vance carves letters along his arm. I step closer as a sick fascination with this man takes root and grows wildly inside me. Glancing down, I see what he’s carved into his flesh. There, staring back at me, are eight letters… CLARISSA.

He turns his face to me, a look of pure desperation and need shadowing his eyes. He’s letting his guard down, standing before me naked, exposing the deepest parts of his soul, letting me see the man and the monster. I’ve never had another person look at me the way he does. As if I’m his world.

Vance makes me feel like I matter, even if his methods are unconventional. Usually, a girl gets flowers and chocolate, not a man mutilating his arm with her name.

With my name.

Vance lifts his arm, and trails of blood drip onto the white marble floor. “There.” He places the bloody knife on the counter and looks at me. “This is pretty permanent, don’t you think? When I say you belong to me, it’s not one-sided. I’m yours, and only yours.

I nod, unsure of what to do or say.

Vance leaves me to my thoughts as he turns on the bathtub's tap, searching for the right temperature. “You want bubbles?”

“You have bubbles?”

“Probably not, but I can get someone to deliver some for the next time.” I like how he says, “next time,” as if I’m going to be a fixture. “I intended to plan this better, but then that guy at the club fucked up my plans, so I have nothing for you, but I’ll fix that. The only thing I could get here on time was the food.”

I smile, thinking how contradictory this man is. “You’re a little squishy, aren’t you?”

“No, Little Bird. Not much about me is soft. The only person who sees this is you. Only you.”

Vance offers his hand, and I take it before stepping into the tub. The carving on his arm doesn’t faze him. He wraps it in a towel before he takes a washcloth and works on my skin, being careful around my back to not cause me any discomfort.

“Does it hurt?”

I sigh, leaning into his touch. “No, it feels wonderful.”

Vance pours shampoo into his hands and gives me an apologetic smile. “It’s probably not what you’re used to.”

His hands glide in my hair as he makes suds while massaging my scalp. My heart constricts at his gentle touch, and a tear slips down my cheek.

Vance stops what he’s doing. Panic flashes in his eyes as he stares at me. “Did I hurt you? I’m sorry. I can stop.”

“No, no, it’s not that. You’re being so gentle and loving. It’s… I’ve never had anyone take care of me.”

“Not even when you were a child?”

“No. My parents died in a car crash when I was three. I’ve been in the system my whole life. No foster parent took the time to ensure I knew I was important. No one has until you.”

“You are important,” Vance says before he continues to wash my hair. “I’m going to make sure you never forget it.”

I smile at his sweet words and revel in his tender touch.

Vance removes the shower head attached to the tub, checking the water pressure before he sprays it on my head, washing away the soap and all the pain I’ve been harboring.

“Your hair is so beautiful,” he says, his hands gentle in my hair. “It was the first thing I noticed about you. This gorgeous black hair. You looked like a Raven.”

I chuckle. “Is that why you call me Little Bird?”

“Yes, my little bird. My raven.”

I turn to face him, and his eyes are softer than I’ve ever seen them. “That’s kinda poetic.”

He smiles and places a soft kiss on my head. “Your poetry.”

Once he’s rinsed off the soap, he lifts me out of the tub, cradling me against him again. I’m shocked at how easily he does it and how much I like it. If this is what it means to be owned by Vance, I’ll gladly be his.

Water trails from my hair as I peer into his eyes. He looks at me and smiles. “You look good in my arms, baby.”

I nod and return his smile in complete agreement.

He wraps a giant white robe around me, and my smile grows.

“What’s funny?”

“I was thinking that for a guy who cuts things up, you sure own a lot of white.”

He shrugs, tying the robe tight. “It’s a thing from my childhood. My mother always liked white things, furniture, clothes, towels, and linens. I know how stupid it is ‘cause getting blood out of white stuff is a bitch.”

“Do you have a good relationship with your mom?”

“Yes, she’s the best. After my dad died, things were rough, but we got through, the three of us.”

“Three of you?”

He pulls back the covers, patting a spot. I shuffle over to sit where he wants me. “Yes. I’ve got a kid sister.”

“Must be nice.”

“It can be, but she’s a pain in my ass and never listens to advice.”

My eyes grow heavy as I fight sleep.

“Rest, Little Bird. We’ve got all the time in the world to talk about anything you want.”