Page 69 of Captive Ruin

“Dinner’s ready, Little Stray,” he calls from the kitchen. “I’m plating up in one minute.”

Little Stray. Because I wandered in somewhere I shouldn’t, and he claimed me.

He keeps calling me his. Is that what I am?

I tie my belt tightly around my robe, and go to face down the man I can’t seem to escape.

Eighteen

Amelia

“Nice bath?” Van Wyk asks as I walk back in.

“Fine,” I say on reflex. Does he deserve more?

He’s laid two places, silverware ready, like this is a typical domestic scene.

Nothing this man does is typical.

I set my mostly full glass of wine down on the table and take a seat, ensuring my robe is tucked tightly around me.

“There we are,” he says, carrying over two plates. “Seafood linguine. I used a little of the white wine in the sauce. I hope that’s all right?”

His damn civility. Is it just pretension, or does he mean it?

“It’s fine.”

He sits down opposite me, taking his napkin and draping it over his lap. The way he moves, so graceful all the time. It reinforces the impression I’ve always had of him as a predator.

Twirling pasta around his fork, he takes a bite. Both our portions are small because I bought food for one, yet he gave me the more generous serving despite being twice my size. It should smell nice, but my stomach is queasy. I was starving when I walked in. Now, to eat with him? In my own apartment, that he’s broken into again, like he somehow has the right?

He nods to my plate. “You can start.”

Does he really think I was waiting for his goddamn permission? Asshole. Now I can’t pick up my fork because it’ll look like I’m obeying him. I give him a glare instead.

He takes another bite, watching me. Chews. Swallows. Then his head tilts. “Are you waiting for me to feed you? I will. You can kneel beside me.”

The image that flashes through my mind is… startling. My core tightens under a wave of heat, and my mouth starts watering. What is wrong with me? Is that visual actually appealing?

No, it can’t be. I pick up my fork, forcing myself to eat. The flavors hit my tongue, the pasta al dente and the sauce excellent, the right balance of sweet and acidic.

He watches me. “Is it all right?”

Is he really seeking my opinion, or is he just being… civil? “Bearable.”

“Bearable?” he echoes, amused. “Then next time, you can cook.”

What does he think this is, a regular event?

“Sure, just as soon as I restock my arsenic.” As soon as the words leave my mouth, I expect him to leap up, drag me to the sofa, and pin me across it with my ass raised. For the second time in as many minutes, the image makes it difficult to breathe. I’m pushing, and I don’t know why. Who pulls the tail of a tiger?

Me, apparently. I just can’t help myself, not with Van Wyk.

I wait for him to move, but he just gives me a steady look. “I don’t think you’d poison me.”

I wouldn’t be so certain. “Might be more effective than shooting you.”

He takes that in stride, forking a spear of asparagus. “You’re not familiar with guns, are you?”