Page 157 of Captive Ruin

I push away from him, and this time he lets me go. The numbness that I’ve temporarily managed to shed rushes back in, washing away everything else, and I welcome it. “I don’t want anything anymore.”

“You don’t mean that.”

I laugh, bitter and short. “Now you’re telling me what I think?”

He lifts a hand to me. “Amelia… please…”

“No, goddammit, no. You do not get to say please to me like that.”

“Don’t close yourself off. Please, just… tomorrow, we’ll talk tomorrow.”

“Yes, go,” I say, walking across the sunroom and keeping my back to him. “Go, and come back as late as you want. In fact, don’t come back at all.”

He doesn’t respond. There’s a hint of a footstep halfway down the hall, but the man moves like a wraith. I know he’s gone, and I don’t turn to check.

Damn. I broke my wine glass. I’ll have to get another, and retrieve the bottle.

Instead, I grip my arms, digging my nails in, using the pain in an effort to keep back the tears.

It doesn’t work.

Thirty-Six

Amelia

The dress Van Wyk has bought me is a slinky black affair with a tight bodice that pinches my waist and lifts my breasts, and a slit so high on the hip I’ll have to be very careful how I move.

Never mind that I have a closet of dresses after all my excessive shopping, this one turned up anyway.

At first, I thought the glitter on the bodice was sequins. How naïve. They’re diamonds.

“I can’t even wear underwear with this.”

Van Wyk’s lips twitch. “I consider that a plus.”

“And I can’t get into it myself,” I add. “It laces at the back.”

“That’s what I’m here for.” He pauses. “Do you like it?”

Yes, I like it. It’s stunning. It’s easily the most beautiful dress I’ve ever owned. “It’s fine.”

“What did I tell you about that word?”

Shit. I’d forgotten.

Or had I? Maybe I do want to provoke him. Get him to push me against a wall and make me feel again.

But then he’ll only leave. I can’t do this anymore.

“Whatever,” I mutter, then drop my robe and step into the dress. It can’t be done gracefully and I don’t want him watching my awkwardness, but he does anyway.

He waits until I’ve settled it around my hips and collected the bodice around my bust, then rises from his chair and walks over, all grace and poise as always. His fingers sweep my French plait over my shoulder (that took ages to do), and his breath is warm on the back of my neck.

“You look gorgeous,” he murmurs as he pulls the laces tight. “All I’ll be thinking of is getting you back home.”

“That works for me,” I reply. “I can’t dance in this dress.”

“Oh?” He inquires. “Doesn’t the hip slit give you freedom of movement?”