Page 151 of Captive Ruin

He thinks I’m tired. I’m not tired. A little tipsy, maybe.

I still go through my bedtime routine. The en suite has two basins, and I wash my face and brush my teeth without getting in his way.

“I’m going to take a shower,” he says. “Would you like to—”

“Go ahead.” I slip out and leave him to it.

I’m lying facing away from him with my light out by the time he emerges. I don’t hear him pad to his side of the bed; he’s stealthy even when he isn’t barefoot on thick carpet. The sheet tugs, the mattress dips, and his body shifts toward mine.

I tense.

His hand slips onto my hip, then runs up my back to my neck, caressing my nape. He’s going to pin me, and I know what follows.

But he doesn’t. His hand strokes down my back again, stopping short of my ass, and returns to my hip.

“Are you tired?” he asks quietly.

“Yes.” I accept the out he’s given me, without even a sense of relief. It’s like there’s just a hole there now, like I’m bereft of the ability to feel anything.

“Then sleep, Little Stray.” His lips press into my shoulder with just a hint of his tongue, and then he draws back.

Despite those words, I keep expecting him to touch me again. While I wait, I wonder at myself. His touch was gentle, and it kindled nothing. It’s not him that’s broken, after all. It’s very definitely me. More broken than the man who invaded my apartment and took what he wanted? More broken than the man with a knife, who hunts and kills for a living?

Maybe he’s not broken. Maybe he never was. Maybe it was always me.

He still hasn’t reached for me again, and I close my eyes, letting my breathing become regular. I haven’t taken my Ambien; it’s going to be ages until I fall asleep.

It’s some time before he puts his light off, and I lie in the dark thinking about how little I care about anything.

Is that what drove Juliette to her end?

Thirty-Five

Amelia

He’s gone when I wake up. I knew he would be.

The side of his bed is still warm, and it smells faintly of him. I shift further over on my side, pulling the sheet up to my nose.

For the briefest moment, it almost stings that he didn’t even say goodbye, before I realize with distinct numbness that I don’t particularly care. At least now things can return to normal.

My normal captivity.

The door opens with a clunk. I look up with mild irritation; Linda usually knocks.

“I made breakfast,” Van Wyk says, walking in with a tray, then gives me a grin, dimples on full display. He’s dressed in a black shirt and slacks, and the sweet smell of syrup and pancakes fills the room. “I don’t think Linda likes me using her kitchen.”

He just grinned at me. He never used to smile, and now he’s grinning?

I used to be positive; now I’m not. He never used to be happy; now he is. Are we doomed to orbit each other in opposition all our lives? That would be tragically ironic.

“Did you clean up after yourself?” I ask absently, not particularly caring one way or the other.

“Uh… fair point. That might be why, I suppose.” He sets the tray down on the room’s table, pulls up a chair, and looks at me expectantly. “Hungry?”

Not really, no. I’m eating less of late.

“I’m fine.”