Page 182 of Captive Ruin

“Lukas,” he says automatically.

“Did you know him well? Was he a friend?”

“Someone I’ve worked with for years, yes.” He pauses, then shrugs one shoulder. “And he was an asshole.”

“Oh. Okay…” I frown, trying to reconcile Van Wyk’s verbal indifference with the emotions he’s displaying. If Van Wyk thinks this guy was an asshole, how bad could he have been?

Takes one to know one, I suppose.

“You met him,” he adds. “Edward Haynes.”

It takes me a moment to place the name. “The man from the gala.” He drove me home. “And at my apartment after the attack.” He arranged… cleanup.

Is it a surprise a man that lives a life of violence dies the same way? Where does that leave Van Wyk? Or me, for that matter?

My hands clench in my lap, nails sharp against my palms. “I thought you said the Volkov situation was resolved.”

“It is. This was something different.”

More violence, more threats. More excuses to keep me locked up. I can hear my own heartbeat and I’m struggling to breathe. “Van Wyk… I don’t want to live like this. I can’t live like this. In fear, for the rest of my life?”

“I know,” he says quietly. “I came to the same conclusion last night. That’s why I’m here. We… need to talk.”

“Uh-huh,” I say slowly, grasping for the frayed edges of my composure. I’m not strong enough for this.

Usually, those four words are followed up with some actual talking, but he only stares at a point in space halfway between us and close to the floor.

I sit there, my nerves on edge, biting my lip as I wait for him to get on with it.

“I’ve been doing some thinking,” he says at last.

Oh, great. He’s been doing some thinking, but my blood pressure has just spiked. And now he’s gone quiet again, like that was all he came to tell me.

“Yes?” I prompt, my irritation growing. Can’t he think any faster?

“I… came to apologize.”

“Pardon?” Of all the things I was expecting, that wasn’t even on the list. I mean, he’s not wrong.

“Several apologies, in fact,” he adds with a grimace.

Still not wrong. The silence settles. Still not saying anything else. Is he deliberately drawing it out? Saying sorry must be new to him. Maybe he doesn’t know how?

“Did you break something?” I ask sarcastically. “That’s more Linda’s domain than mine.”

He winces. “This… isn’t easy for me.”

It’s not a walk in the park for me, either. What does he want, my support? If so, we’ll be sitting in silence a long time.

“I’m… sorry about the night of the gala,” he says with a distinct air of formality.

I badly want to say ‘What?’ but I bite my tongue, waiting to see if he’ll expand.

“I was wrong to treat you like that.”

Six months. That’s how long I’ve been waiting for that apology. And now that it’s come, I can’t think of anything to say. ‘You think?’ feels inadequate, ‘fuck you, Van Wyk’ feels too late, and ‘at least you weren’t impotent’ doesn’t strike the right note.

“I shouldn’t have taken Serranto’s hairs out of your purse, either,” he adds, then sucks in a breath through his teeth. “Or cut off your clothes.”