Page 173 of Captive Ruin

Half of Bastien’s security is present, looking at her, seeing her vulnerable and fragile like this.

Judging her. Judging me.

More than anything, I want them out. I say nothing; it’s my penance.

The doctor fixes a plastic clip to her finger, a lead running to a machine, and it starts showing numbers and a heartrate. He lets out a breath in relief. “Now all we can do is wait.”

“And she’ll be all right?” I ask quickly.

“Her oxygen is good, so yes.” He taps the screen. “If this falls below ninety-five, hit this button.”

“And if it does?”

“Then we’ll need to feed her more oxygen, but I don’t think it will. Keep that mask on her for another twenty minutes, then we’ll see. I’ll be in the next room.”

“Thank you, doctor,” I say with feeling, but it sounds so inadequate.

He nods anyway, and I think he gets it.

“Can we have privacy?”

“Yes, of course.”

I don’t wait for him to give the instruction.

“Everyone out,” I bark. “Right goddamn now.” Fuck, it feels good to say that.

Eventually, the door closes behind the last of them, and I exhale softly, then sit down on the bed beside my Little Stray, holding the mask that keeps her breathing.

“I’m sorry,” I tell her. “I’m so… so fucking sorry. It’ll be different, I swear it will.”

She doesn’t respond, but I hope she can hear me.

Thirty-Nine

Amelia

Iwake up with the mother of all headaches. I groan, and that’s a mistake. My stomach roils, and I have to swallow hard.

“Oh, thank God.”

I blink open bleary eyes. Van Wyk is in a chair beside my bed, one of my hands clutched in both of his, staring at me like he’s never seen me before. His eyes are rimmed red, his face sunken, and his usually pristine clothing is rumpled to hell and back.

Van Wyk has been… crying? Over me? Impossible.

“I’m going to… throw up,” I say in lieu of a greeting.

“I’ve got you.”

“No, I can manage—”

But he’s already lifting me up in his strong arms, cradling me to his chest, carrying me into the bathroom like I weigh nothing. Bizarrely, there’s a chair facing the toilet already, and I fall gratefully onto it, emptying my stomach into the bowl. It comes out black. Why?

Disgusting.

Van Wyk holds my hair out of the way and rubs my back. But I’m waiting for his noises of disapproval.

Nothing comes. I’m drenched in sweat by the time I’m done, and the only sounds he made are soothing encouragement. A glass of water appears, lightly sparkling, the minerality helping wash away the lingering acrid taste.