Page 50 of Captive Ruin

“You remember how to cock it?” Lucy asks. “Keep the chamber empty.”

“I got it.” Amelia slips the magazine, checks it, then rams it back in, aiming it at the door to her apartment like she’s imagining me standing there.

My Little Stray has claws.

It’s clear she’s not used to the weapon, yet she still handles it with confidence. Haynes’s profile on her didn’t find a gun license, so she doesn’t have one. He’s that thorough. My Little Stray is being naughty.

Her sister stays a while, eventually sleeping on the couch. I skip through it, not feeling the urge to listen to their conversation. Amelia leaves her with a sheet then heads for her own room. The cameras in there turn on, and I follow along as she takes a shower before bed.

Damn, how I miss seeing her like this.

She soon walks back in naked, biting at her lip as she checks her bedroom door is closed. Then she climbs beneath the duvet, her perfect body obscured, but it’s her face I watch, zooming in on the footage so that her expression is crystal clear in high-definition. Eyes closed, mouth slightly parted, a hint of color in her cheeks.

“Lie on the bed and spread your legs for me,” she murmurs aloud, and her knees rise and part.

Confirmation that I’m still living rent-free in her fantasies. It’s as it should be.

The duvet is covering her nakedness, and I don’t mind. The intensity of the emotions she displays is more captivating than her nudity. Her body is gorgeous, but her expressions are sublime.

Her soft sounds of pleasure make up for what I can’t see, and though I listen hard for any more hints, her murmurs are too quiet to pick up. She’s being quieter than usual, not wanting to disturb Lucy. Part of me is surprised she’s doing this now, when she skipped the last two nights. Has it been too long? Or was she unable to resist, after imagining me at her door, her new gun pointed at me?

Her mouth parts as her arousal peaks, breaths light and fast. Her lower lip trembles with the strength of her arousal. She comes quickly, shuddering in pleasure, and basks in the afterglow. Then she gives a little huff of frustration and turns off the light, rolling to her side and dragging up the duvet like she’s angry with it.

Was that because it wasn’t satisfying? Or because she’s blaming herself for making me the object of her pleasure?

She’s fighting herself, but she’s losing.

The cameras switch to low-light mode, recording her as she sleeps, the gentle rise and fall of her chest enough motion to keep them activated. I watch her a while, finding it peaceful.

With any luck, tomorrow I’ll be done here and on a plane. If I can’t be with her, the next best thing is that she’s preparing herself for my future visits. It helps that she has time to process what we’ve done, to let it sink into her psyche, only to emerge when she’s indulging in her own self-pleasure. Accepting me within her mind, little by little.

She doesn’t have long to wait.

That night, I dress in the uniform of the cleaning contractors, joining them at the rear of the building during one of their frequent cigarette breaks. The disguise does its job; the only stares I get are full of resentment because I’m showing up when the shift is nearly finished, not because they’re suspicious.

Someone fires a question my way, irritation in his tone. I don’t speak enough German to answer him, so meet his inquiry with a scowl, heft my bag onto my shoulder, and walk through the door they’ve so helpfully left ajar.

No one says anything further or challenges me. I’m in.

I take the elevator to the floor I want, walking past Leopold’s corner office without a glance. What I’m looking for is a network port, and it doesn’t take long to find one. I plug in the implant Sentinel Risk has provided to my specifications. It’s a small device that will probably go unnoticed even if it is seen, and I only need it to stay in place until Leopold logs on in the morning.

Ten minutes and I’m done. Back in my hotel room, I strip off the borrowed cleaner uniform and send it for laundry service. I don’t care what they do with it, I won’t be collecting it clean and pressed.

When I check, Amelia hasn’t yet arrived back home. I’m tempted to wait up for her, but there’s no need. I’ll soon be seeing her again.

That thought keeps me awake for a long time, but I still don’t check the feed. I’m not interested in videos of her anymore; I want the real thing.

Friday morning, Andrew Leopold logs on shortly before nine. I imagine him at his desk, coffee in hand, typing in his password as he does every morning. Nothing to suggest that across his floor, on the back of a network switch he probably doesn’t know exists, a device the size of a USB stick has just captured it all.

While Leopold is reading his first emails of the day, I’m downloading all his files.

Finally, I’m done with this place, and Origin too. Now I can get back to where I need to be: gripping my stray by the scruff of her neck.

Thirteen

Amelia

With the promise of the coming weekend, I usually like Fridays. But the exhibition is next Wednesday, and there’s still so much to do.