Page 68 of Captive Ruin

“That’ll be fine,” I mutter. I don’t want to linger in here anyway.

He leaves me in peace, except how can it be peace when he’s still here?

And I know what won’t happen. We’ll have dinner—no doubt that’ll be as awkward as hell—and then he won’t leave. He’ll be here, I’ll be here. Is he going to sleep on the couch? Is he going to forget the punishment I apparently earned by trying to shoot him with my empty gun?

No to both questions.

Okay, maybe I shouldn’t have tried to shoot him. No—maybe I should’ve hidden the gun better, so he couldn’t find it. Or checked it had goddamn bullets in it. In hindsight, it was a little light, but it’s not like I’ve held one all that often. Still felt pretty damn heavy to me.

I glance at my pile of clothing, my phone in there somewhere. I could call the police.

And say what? That a man has broken into my apartment (without any damage), stolen all the bullets to my illegal gun, and could they please come quickly, because I want to eat the seafood pasta he made all by myself?

Jesus. There’s no defense. None whatsoever.

Maybe I could try saying ‘no.’ Maybe I could say I’m tired. Maybe I could say I don’t want to be fucked. Or punished.

Maybe he’ll listen. Somehow, I doubt it.

For some strange reason, I’m halfway through using my razor before I realize what I’m doing. My thoughts were elsewhere, and I’m working on automatic. That’s the reason, I tell myself. It’s not that I want to be smooth for him. It’s that I…

Shit, I don’t even know anymore. He saved my gallery. He got Serranto off my back. He lay in bed with me, talked about his wife, stroked me to sleep.

He’s cooking me dinner, right now, smells filling the air with hints of chili and lemon.

I finish with my razor—for me, not for him—and throw it into the sink. It bounces on the lip, ricocheting onto the floor. Typical.

I’m so done with today.

Except I’m not. I still have to deal with him.

I pull myself out of the bath, not caring how the water sloshes, and towel myself off. Pick up the razor and set it carefully on the side. Eye my clothes. They’re all dirty. My silk bathrobe is on the back of the door, the one he pulled off me on his first visit here.

What I really need is a suit of armor, but I don’t have one of those. Or maybe a lockable chastity belt. But then he’d have no compunction about using my mouth.

Damn it. Now I’m thinking about sucking him. Done that already.

And now I’m aroused. I hate that I’m aroused. I’m standing here, naked and smooth and wet, and the son of a bitch is turning me on merely through anticipation. Why can’t I resist him? Why won’t he take no as an answer?

Angrily, I pull on my robe.

This is worse than when we met at the gala, or the first night he came here. Because now, after all this, after what I know of him, after what he’s done… now, part of me actually likes him.

That’s the admission that hurts the most.

But I like that he cared enough to save my gallery. He didn’t need to do that. I like that he’s in there, cooking right now. He doesn’t need to do that, either. He could’ve just barged in here, bent me over the arm of the sofa…

…Not a thought I need right now.

I like that he’s dealt with Serranto, though I need to ask him what he’s done. I need to know if Serranto will come for his revenge, or target Lucy.

And if I’m honest, I like that he stayed with me the other night, didn’t force himself on me, talked to me and held me until I fell asleep. I like the way he moves, I like his body. I even like his civility and his ever so dry sense of humor.

Now that I think of it, I can’t remember ever seeing him smile. The odd sadistic chuckle, but no smiles.

Is that because his wife died? Is he happy?

Damn it. Now I want to make him smile. What the hell is the matter with me?