Page 175 of Captive Ruin

“I’m… sorry.” It sounds woefully inadequate. And it’s not directed at him, but at them.

“No,” he says quickly. “No. It’s me that must beg your forgiveness. I’m so desperately, desperately sorry, Amelia.” He takes my hand again, gripping it with both of his yet holding it gently. “I swear to you, I’ll do better. Whatever it is you need, you can have.”

He means it, yet it’s worthless, constrained by the inevitable. He means what I need, not what I want; he’s made that clear enough. In his mind, I don’t need freedom, I need a new book. I don’t need something to do, I need only to exist.

I turn away, too weak to argue.

My eyes close, and I don’t bother to stop them. I need sleep, and I don’t need him.

He’s still sitting in that same chair when I wake, and this time there’s light around the blinds.

Barely a second passes before he notices my eyes are open. He smiles like I’m hope personified, face drawn and weary.

He unscrews a bottle of water and pours a glass, offering it to me.

I sit up weakly, then accept it, taking sips. “Time?”

“Eleven-ish. Are you hungry?”

My stomach revolts at the thought and I shake my head. “Have you slept?”

“Don’t worry about me.”

“I wasn’t. It was merely curiosity.” It’s not true; I don’t know why I say it. Despite everything, I do still care, even though he doesn’t deserve it.

He winces, closing his eyes in pain, then nods. “I’m so desperately sorry, Amelia. I’ll never stop making this up to you.”

I should be ashamed for what I’ve done. For lashing out at him, for putting him through this. For putting others through this—and there, at least, there is guilt. But for him?

Only anger.

“You can’t,” I say coldly. “How do you make up for stealing my life? How do you make up for taking someone’s freedom?”

He flinches. “Let’s talk about this when you’re stronger—”

“No, we’ll talk about it now! Answer me.”

“By… giving it back to them… as a start,” he says hoarsely.

“Like you gave back Juliette’s?” It’s cruel, but I can’t help it. Those thoughts are never far from my mind, even now.

Van Wyk goes still. Then his hand slips into his pocket, and he pulls out his karambit.

I freeze, my blood chilling. Why save me from my dreamless oblivion only to kill me now? Because I asked that question? Because Juliette is such a trigger for him?

He turns the knife over in his hands, then flicks open the blade. We both stare at it, gleaming dully in the light, him blankly, me with dread.

“I can’t bring her back,” he whispers. Is he talking to his knife, or to me? “I wouldn’t, even if I could. Not if she was still ill, not when I can’t heal her.”

My throat spasms as I swallow. I’m frozen, my body too weak to move, waiting for the moment he snaps and drives that blade into me.

“I married Juliette because…” He stops, his lips twisting wryly. “It was a marriage of convenience. Her father had a failing business. My father bought it out. My parents wanted me to have a wife. She was pretty enough.” He shrugs one shoulder. “Three years after we were married, she had her first episode. The doctors prescribed antidepressants, which in undiagnosed bipolar only makes things worse.”

I scarcely breathe, listening to every word. I don’t know why he has that knife out; maybe it brings him comfort. How fucked up is that? I force my eyes away from it, to his face.

“She recovered for a while, then had another major episode. By then, I was working with Bastien. He found the best doctors, and they diagnosed correctly: schizoaffective disorder bipolar I with psychotic features.”

“My God,” I breathe.