Page 29 of Captive Ruin

“I’ll scream.”

His eyebrows lift a fraction, but he doesn’t slow his advance. “Will you?”

My back hits the wall, jolting me. He’s two paces away. One. Close enough to smell his cologne, sandalwood and bergamot. Far too damn close.

“Yes, I will,” I declare, going for a bravado I don’t feel.

“I don’t think you will,” he says. “And I don’t think anyone will care if you do.”

He’s right, damn it. Around here, couples fight all the time. No one pays any attention. I could scream fire, and even if they heard me, no one would blink until the floor got hot.

“Turn around,” he murmurs.

The unexpected command has me blinking. “What?”

“Face the wall,” he says, lifting one hand, showing me what he’s holding.

A pair of thick cuffs in dark brown leather, a few inches of chain between them. I hadn’t noticed. I’d been too busy staring at him.

I’ve noticed now.

“What the hell?” I press into the wall. “You can’t be serious!”

“Turn around,” he says quietly. “I won’t tell you again.”

Eight

Amelia

The power in his voice, the vulnerability of my position.

To my shame, I almost obey.

My hand goes to the sash of my robe, checking it’s tight. I’m acutely, almost comically aware of what I’m wearing, or not wearing. That I’m naked beneath this. That two minutes ago, I was on my bed, doing what I was doing. Fantasizing what I was fantasizing.

The object of those thoughts stands before me.

My cheeks flush until I can feel them burning. His eyes flick to my lips, then hold my gaze, steady and unflinching, a startling pale grey that’s almost silver.

But fantasies aren’t reality, and some of them are never designed to see the light of day. They’re private, my own. And I am not his.

He’s forced his way in here, against my will, expecting me to obey him. What gives him the goddamn right? I will not bow to this man.

“No.” The word comes out hard, but not hard enough. I lift my chin, brace my back against the wall, stare at him with all the defiance I can muster, and give it another go. “No. I told you to leave.”

“And I told you to turn around.”

The nerve of the man. “What part of no can’t you understand?”

There’s no response, not even a flicker, save that those grey eyes somehow go flat. Like all emotion just got wiped away.

It’s possibly the most terrifying lack of expression I’ve ever seen.

“Do you want to make me angry?” he asks, like that’s a genuine life choice right now.

Maybe he’s not yet angry, but I’m trembling with rage and fear. I refuse to admit it might also be with anticipation. “What I want is for you to get out. I can’t be clearer. You have five seconds before I start screaming.”

“Go ahead,” he says, unruffled. “We both know no one will come. And while you’re doing that, turn around.”