Page 121 of Captive Ruin

“About twenty minutes.”

“Thank you. Then I only have to endure nineteen more of this uncomfortable scrutiny.”

“A man is allowed to look upon his wife,” I murmur.

“We’re not married yet, Van Wyk.”

“During the ceremony, the officiant might expect you to know my name. It’s Lukas, by the way.”

“Does it matter? I didn’t think I had anything to say but ‘I do,’ when I don’t.”

“Pretend,” I suggest. “The more convincing you are, the more orgasms you get tonight.”

She glances at the back of Tony’s head as if to say we’re not alone then glares at me. “Is that supposed to be an incentive?”

“We could go the other way.”

“What, no sex if I behave myself? Now that is an incentive.”

“Not quite,” I say mildly, “and we both know that was a lie. No, I meant that if you don’t behave, I’ll force you to come again and again, until you’re an exhausted, sweaty puddle.” I pause just long enough to enjoy her reaction. “And then, when you’re begging me for a break, I’ll make you come some more.”

Amelia finds something fascinating out of her window, but not before I see her cheeks burn red. “Why is everything a competition with you?”

“I have high standards. Just like you do.”

“Clearly not,” she replies. “Otherwise I’d have the day free.”

Tony turns a laugh into a cough, then catches my eye in the rearview mirror and snaps his attention to the road.

But I don’t mind Amelia talking to me like this. I like to see the fight in her. Some part of Amelia will never stop fighting me, and I’d be disappointed if she did.

It’s become a habit, like it’s our thing, our game.

In that, she’s so different from Juliette.

Maybe I shouldn’t be thinking of my dead wife on the day of my wedding, but I can’t help it. I’m certain she’s watching, wherever she is, smiling her blessing. She loved me, and it was always a regret I couldn’t love her back. But after twelve years together, I miss her. I always will.

Years of Juliette being ill, hollowed out by her deterioration, increasingly unreachable. The guilt of her death lingers, even though it’s mixed with relief. I should’ve been there, I should’ve stopped her. I should’ve seen it coming.

Yet part of me can’t help but feel it was an inevitability.

“Remember me as I was,” she tells me in one of her ever-rarer lucid moments, “not as I’ve become.”

She’s sitting in the sunroom, which she always found calming. We knew, by then, that her episodes were worsening, despite the best doctors Bastien could find.

“I’ll remember you as you are,” I reply. “Always so bright.”

She shakes her head. “Not so bright anymore.” She reaches for my hand and grips it with a strength that belies her frailty. “I’m so sorry.”

“Whatever for?”

Tears fill her eyes. “For leaving you. For not being the woman you need… or love.”

“You’ve been all I could ask for.”

“Always so carefully phrased,” she says, patting my hand. “We both know this is nearing the end. When I’m—”

“No, it’s not.” I drop to a knee beside her chair. “There’s a new experimental treatment in Switzerland…”