Page 112 of Captive Ruin

“Who do you work for? At the gala, you said you work in security…” I look around at the enormous bedroom, this ridiculous mansion. But of course. “Are you a spy? Is this a government safehouse?”

Van Wyk chuckles softly. “No, it’s mine. And I work for Bastien Fournier. But you’re cute, Little Stray. A spy? That’s almost romantic.”

I blush, looking down. I knew about Fournier already, but it could’ve been a cover. Maybe I got carried away, but I’m not used to dealing with dead bodies, the mafia, and threats to my life.

And now I’ve got Van Wyk involved. His injuries prove that. He’s endangered himself, protecting me. That’s what he’s been doing these last two weeks, when I thought he had simply abandoned me.

My monster. My protector. Sitting there, watching me, while he bleeds on the sheets. It doesn’t erase the anger or loneliness, but it softens the harshest edges. Van Wyk is such a powerful man, it feels wrong seeing him in any state of vulnerability.

“How badly are you injured?”

“It’s a scratch.” He pulls up the side of his shirt. There’s a white pad strapped to his flank with surgical tape, but the center of it has soaked through bright crimson, glistening wet with his blood.

“Jesus.” I cross to the end of the bed, unable to take my eyes off him. “That’s not a goddamn scratch.”

“It looks worse than it is. Our earlier… exuberance tore my stitches.”

When I attacked him. Or when he spanked and fucked me. Or all three.

But no matter how he downplays it, it’s obvious the wound isn’t minor at all. Bad enough to be stitched up, and there’s so much blood.

Guilt swells through me, and I have to swallow bile. He’s injured because of me. All of this is because of me and my stupidity, my naïveté.

“It’s all my fault.” Tears prickle my eyes, and I blink them back.

“Like I said, it’s complicated.” He lets his shirt fall and gestures at the bed. “Sit down, Little Stray.”

I slump on the foot of the bed. “I’m so sorry I dragged you into this.”

“I’m not,” he says bluntly. “I know how these men work, and how they treat their women. If we hadn’t met, you’d be Serranto’s toy by now.”

I cringe at the thought, hugging my arms, my skin crawling.

“Instead, I’m yours,” I whisper.

“Do you think that’s the same thing?” he asks, voice hardening. “I assure you it’s not. I would never harm you. They, on the other hand…” He trails off, clenching his jaw, letting the words hang.

I shiver, thinking of the men in my apartment and how evil they were, just like Serranto. Sometimes, I hate being a woman. So weak and vulnerable, prey to men like that.

“No,” I say. “I don’t think it’s the same.” Van Wyk is different. Dominant and controlling, yes, but he also honors his word, acts with civility and is strangely playful. “I don’t think it’s the same at all.”

Yet I’m still his prey.

“Good,” he says, with obvious relief. “That will make this next bit easier.”

My stress spikes. How can there be anything worse than what he’s already told me? “What next bit?”

“You already know the Volkovs are aware of you,” he says. “But it’s not just you. They’re also aware of Bastien. And… of me.”

I hold up a hand. “Wait, wait, wait. Are you saying you’ve dragged me into some kind of turf war?”

“Crude, but not inaccurate.”

So it’s not my fault after all. It’s entirely his.

My anger returns with a vengeance, and I’m on my feet, pacing through the room again. I spin, glaring at him. “I’m a prisoner in this goddamn house because you started a war with the Volkovs, and now they’re targeting me?”

He shifts on the bed, looking awkward. “We were stepping around each other until it… escalated.”