Page 148 of Captive Ruin

A chill runs across my skin. “And why do you think I can be bought?”

Koval smiles, opening the folder on the table. “Her sister, Lucy.” He slides me a photo. “Her best friend, Sierra.” Another photo. “Her recent shopping trip.” More photos, this time with Tony and Jorge around Amelia. “And yes, we know where she is.” Another photo, of the gate into my house.

Amelia’s face in that photograph. Koval’s hands on it.

The rage comes up so fast it whites out the room, the men, even the calculus of survival. My hand is on my weapon before I know it, and whatever Koval sees in my face makes him very still.

“Careful, Mr. Van Wyk,” he murmurs. “If we die today, she dies tomorrow.”

It takes everything I have not to draw and shoot him, right beneath this table before he has a chance to know he’s dead.

“You have rules,” I snarl. “Do you know what I will do if you break them? To you, to your men, to every fucking member of the goddamn Volkov family?”

“Ah, a possessive man.” Koval nods. “I can work with that.” He tucks the photos back into the folder, then slides it across the table to me. “Are you in control enough to listen?”

I’m still gripping my weapon. Releasing it takes everything I have, finger by finger.

“Yes.” It’s all I can manage.

“We only want someone inside Cadrion.” He waves a hand. “A precaution, if you will. A way of ensuring that we know what you’re doing, so we can avoid stepping on your toes.”

I stare at him in disbelief. “You think I’d put an assassin close to Fournier? What sort of fool do you take me for?”

“We are not the assassins, Mr. Van Wyk.” Koval leans back, then jerks his chin at the folder. “You’ll find their profile in there. Do your own research and satisfy yourself.” He gives a wry smile. “Let’s call it… a marriage of convenience.”

“I’ll look,” I grind out, “but I make no promises.”

“My number is in there too,” he says quietly. “When you’re ready to make promises, let me know. Until then, we can’t keep anything off the table, can we?”

Thirty-Four

Amelia

January is too cold for swimming even with the pool cranked to maximum, and I’ve read everything I’m ever going to read from that library. Thank God for the Kindle app.

My phone keeps me sane, though I’m worried I’m bugging Lucy and Sierra too much. But it’s not the same as seeing them. I’m meaningfully cut off from everyone that matters to me, and it’s starting to wear on me. It’s bad when a visit from a hairdresser who Linda organized is the highlight of my week.

The gate has a security code that I don’t have and is keyed to the remotes in the vehicles. The garage is locked all the time. I’ve walked the whole damn perimeter more times than I can count, and every inch of it is fenced. The perimeter guards ignore me, Jorge-style, but I keep my distance. The guns they carry aren’t for show.

It doesn’t matter anyway. Tony and Jorge dog my every step, and I know they’re under instructions to stop me if I start digging a tunnel or practicing my pole-vaulting.

The worst part is I can’t leave even if I did find a way. Where would I go? Back to my apartment, on which I’m still paying rent? Tony thinks the Volkovs are watching it. I don’t know if it’s true, but I’d look damn silly if I swapped one kidnapping for another.

I considered going to Lucy, but dismissed it immediately. It would take Van Wyk all of ten minutes to find me there, and that’s assuming he hasn’t already broken in and put cameras throughout. I wouldn’t put it past him. He probably knows about Sierra, too.

I fantasize about giving Tony and Jorge the slip on one of our shopping trips. It might not even be that hard; time it right, disappear into the crowds, get in a cab.

And then my sister loses her protection, Van Wyk hunts me down and drags me back, and the spanking that followed wouldn’t be our usual fun. Is there anywhere on this Earth that he couldn’t find me? Somehow I doubt it, and that’s not just fatalism talking.

That’s the thing about being married to an obsessive stalker with a voyeurism fetish and all the morality of a forest fire. He always knows where I am and what I’m doing.

Just not how I’m feeling.

After a while, the vibrancy of my feelings starts to lose its edge. A heavy numbness begins to creep in around the edges, encasing me a bit more with each day, each hour I spend in isolation. My energy melts away one drip at a time, leaving me… desolate.

I’m certain part of it is Juliette’s lingering presence, and the knowledge she cut her own throat in the bedroom. There’s a single picture of her in the whole house, and it’s on a cabinet in Van Wyk’s office. Ironically, it’s a wedding photo.

She looks happy. He looks stoic.