Page 100 of Captive Ruin

I enter slowly, taking in the room. The bed is a massive four-poster with a mattress so high it reaches my waist. Beyond a breakfast table and a couple of chairs, doors lead out to a balcony. A large canvas painted in a loose, expressionistic style immediately catches my eye, depicting two much-loved, well-worn teddy bears, sitting side-by-side in contentment.

To say it’s incongruous is—

Of course. His recently deceased wife. This isn’t his room, it’s theirs.

The hairs rise on my neck, goosebumps creeping over my skin. This is wrong. All the rooms in the house, and he’s brought me to this one? Why? I don’t belong.

“Feeling better?” he asks.

No, I’m feeling a hell of a lot worse.

“Just tired.” It takes all I have to offer a strained smile.

Van Wyk stuffs his hands in the pockets of his robe, then takes them out again and clasps them behind his back. I’ve never seen him agitated before, but it’s me that’s the interloper.

“Do you like the house?” he asks, like my opinion genuinely matters.

“It’s lovely,” I reply. From what I’ve seen of it, it’s homely and thoughtfully laid out. But it’s not mine and it doesn’t fit him; her touch is in every room I’ve seen so far, from the hallway flowers to the kitchen design and the goddamn teddy bears.

“Good,” he says, with obvious relief. “I’m glad.”

An awkward silence descends.

I say the first thing that comes to mind. “I saw a piano. I didn’t know you played.”

“Oh.” He rubs a hand across the back of his neck, his robe gaping open as he does. “I don’t, unfortunately. Music isn’t one of my skills.”

So that was hers, too. I don’t need to ask to know it’s true.

Why am I here? How soon can I leave?

“Do you mind if I go to sleep?” I need the escape. “I’m dead on my feet.”

“Of course.” He waves a hand toward a door in one wall. “Bathroom, and there’s a robe for you.”

I nod, too wrung out for more.

A brand new electric toothbrush waits with the head still in its packet. Toiletries from expensive brands. A silk robe for when I’m done, that may or may not have also been hers.

When I come out, Van Wyk is already in the bed, the sheet across his hips. There’s no duvet; instead, the room is so warm it’s like sleeping in summer.

I slip off the robe, sliding beneath the sheet, and turn on my side to face away from him.

There’s a pause before he clicks off the lights, and mechanical shutters slowly descend across the windows.

The mattress dips as he moves, and a moment later he’s pressed to my back. I close my eyes, bracing myself, lying as still as I can. His hand runs up over my hip, strokes lightly along my side, then cups my breast. It’s all I can do not to shiver.

“Good night,” he murmurs.

I don’t reply.

“And… I know this is difficult… but I’m really glad you’re here.”

My eyes flick open in the dark.

Before he said that, I was ready for sleep—or at least to try. Now I’m wide awake, adrenaline coursing through me.

Why does Van Wyk being nice raise such alarm bells?