Page 35 of Captive Ruin

He returns my gaze, unruffled. “More.”

I widen my legs a few inches.

“Amelia.” He’s using that displeased tone again. “Lift your knees, spread them open. Offer yourself to me.”

Jesus. Fuck.

Is there a position any less humiliating than that one?

I obey, because I know what will happen if I don’t. But I scowl at him the whole goddamn time, anger as my defiance.

“Good girl,” he says, and gives my thigh another condescending little pat. “Stay like that, now.”

I really hate this man. If he calls me ‘good girl’ one more time, I swear I’m going to… claw his eyes out or something, just as soon as these goddamn cuffs come off.

Holding onto my anger isn’t just a luxury, it’s a necessity. If I don’t, he’ll get inside my head even more. I’m scared I’m going to start liking those damn ‘good girls’—or worse, craving them. Isn’t everyone susceptible to praise?

I’m going to lie here and let him fuck me. Then he’s going to leave, and tomorrow I’m going to go and buy a gun in case he ever decides to come back.

Van Wyk takes his time peeling off his shirt, watching me while he does. I turn my head, unable to bear his gaze while I’m lying so exposed. He strips off the rest of his clothes, and I can’t help sneak glimpses of him. It’s not that his body is sculpted to perfection—not just that, anyway—it’s that this man is about to take me again, and I’m lying here, helpless, waiting for him.

It’s fucking with my head. I hate it. I’m not weak, I don’t want this.

“I can hear you thinking,” he says, the first words either of us have spoken in several moments. “The defiance in your jawline makes you stunningly beautiful, do you know that?”

I glance at him in surprise, then wish I hadn’t. He’s fully naked now, his cock erect, pointing toward me. Those muscles of his are lean, not bulky, the body of a predator, a killer.

Along with that knife of his.

A new shiver runs through me. How did I not see this?

I have a psychopath in my bedroom, and I’m chained and helpless.

Is he going to fuck me, then kill me?

Real fear steals my breath, and I’m trembling. I suddenly know I’m right. I’ll never get to buy a gun; these are the last few minutes of my life. I tug in futility at the cuffs, and they don’t give at all. They’ll find my body… at some point… and I’ll be a brief news article that people read with morbid relish over their morning coffee.

“Amelia?” He takes a step closer, and I cringe away. “What’s wrong? What are you thinking?”

He asks me what’s wrong?

“This whole goddamn thing is wrong!” I scream at him. “You’re a fucking psychopath! You’re evil, you’re twisted, you’re going to kill me, you’re… going to…” I break off, struggling to take in any air.

Van Wyk sits down on the side of the bed, then lays his hand on my thigh. I shudder, pulling my legs closed, and he doesn’t object. But his hand follows my movement, keeping contact.

“Why would I harm what’s mine?” he asks quietly.

I stare at him. That doesn’t even track. People hurt things that are theirs all the goddamn time. Dogs get kicked. Children get abused. Wives get beaten. And… “I’m not yours.”

Yes, because that’s the important point to make right now, shortly before he murders me.

“You are,” he contradicts, no doubt whatsoever in his tone. “But that’s a conversation for another time. For now, you have my word I won’t harm you.”

His word. That’s such a relief.

Except he says it like it carries weight, like it’s his bond. It matters to him.

“You already have,” I mutter, but it’s reflex. Somehow, just like that, he’s reassured me. I don’t know why he even bothered to, but I no longer feel like I’ll be dead by morning.