Page 152 of Captive Ruin

“Amelia,” he says, the word carrying warning in the way that only he can pull off, “you need to eat. Come here.”

Like I’m a puppy, or a slave.

Or someone who needs him to take care of her.

That’s not a welcome thought; I can take care of myself.

I grasp for the only excuse to stay in bed I can think of. “My robe’s in the bathroom.”

I expect him to lean back in his chair, watching with undisguised interest as I’m forced to get out of bed, naked, and fetch it. Or worse, eat breakfast with him without being allowed the luxury of covering myself.

What I don’t expect is what he does.

“I’ll get it.” He’s up out of his chair while I’m still blinking. He brings it to me, doesn’t hold it open, but simply hands it to me. Then walks back to his seat.

Huh.

I pull it on before I get out of the bed, wrapping it around myself and tying the sash as I walk over. He’s not looking.

“Orange juice?” he asks, lifting a jug with ice.

“Thank you.” It’s easier to go along with it, but I’m not sure if I’ll be able to eat.

He pours me a glass, setting it before me as I sit down. “Pancakes. They’re your favorite, right?”

“Not really, no.” It takes me a second to realize that sounds ungrateful. “They’re fine.” That sounds neutral, but it’ll do.

“Oh.” He pauses, a slight frown marring his features, his expression morphing into almost boyish confusion. Had I seen this look a few months ago, I might’ve found it endearing. Now, I just note it with clinical detachment. “Linda thought they were.”

Yes, that’s about right. We’re married, but neither of us knows what the other likes, so he asks someone else. My god, how could I have ever thought we would work?

“I think she assumed, because I said I liked them one time.”

“I see.” Another pause. “What is your favorite?”

And there it is: a significant step forward in our relationship. Basic communication. Expressing interest in each other’s likes and dislikes. One day soon, we’ll be going on our first date.

“For breakfast?” I ask, picking up my fork and cutting a small bite. The pancakes are fluffy. “Scrambled eggs and bacon is fine.”

“With mushrooms on the side?”

“If you like.”

“What do you like?”

“Mushrooms are fine.”

He sets his fork down and leans back in his chair. “Okay. The next time you tell me something is ‘fine’ I’m not going to hold back. I’m going to pin you over the side of the bed, pull your robe up, and spank your ass until your vocabulary improves.”

I blink at him. “Mushrooms would be nice.”

“Fantastic!” he says with exaggerated delight. “Tomorrow, we’ll do that.” He picks his fork back up and takes a mouthful. “Do you have plans for today?”

“Yes, my schedule is full.” I don’t want to eat any more, so I pick up my drink. “First, I’m going to sit in the sunroom and read my Kindle. Then I’ll take a walk, while Jorge ignores me. I like to see if any holes have appeared in the fencing overnight. After that, I’ll gaze at the pool for a while and try to muster enough enthusiasm for a swim, probably fail, and return to the sunroom until I have to choke down some dinner.” I take a sip. “You?”

Van Wyk looks at his plate, jaw clenched. He sets his fork down, closes his eyes for a moment as if in pain, then leans back in his chair and props his elbows on the arms, linking his fingers. Watching me.

“I’m sorry I was gone for so long.”