Page 20 of Captive Ruin

“But I just got here.”

“Yes, and now you’re just leaving.”

“I haven’t seen you for a week, and when I turn up, this is the reaction I get?” He frowns. “Are you… cheating on me?”

I gape at him. “Cheating?” How could he ask that? I don’t sleep around, I don’t date, I don’t even have the time! “How could I be cheating on you, on us, when there is no us, Scott!”

“That’s not a no,” he retorts, expression turning cold.

“No, I have never cheated on you,” I say, enunciating every word through clenched teeth. Burying deep the lie that isn’t really a lie. I didn’t want what Van Wyk did. I didn’t cheat on Scott, I didn’t have a choice. “And now we’ve established that, get out. Get out, and don’t come back.”

His head jerks back as if I’ve slapped him. “You don’t mean that.”

“The hell I don’t.”

“Fine.” He pushes himself to his feet. “Fine,” he says again, walking to the door. I follow at a distance, keeping him in sight. He pauses with a hand on the handle, turning to face me. “You’ll be calling me within the week, begging for me to come back.”

“The hell I will.”

“We’ll find out,” he says with bravado, then opens the door and steps through. “See you soon, Amelia.”

I don’t wait for him to close the door, but run forward, slamming it shut behind him, tears of anger blurring my vision.

How dare he? How dare they?

How does Scott get to barge his way in, help himself to my person, accuse me of goddamn cheating when he’s not even in this relationship, then leave me feeling like the guilty party?

I scream my rage at the door, hoping the bastard hears, then stomp back into my apartment.

Fuck him. Fuck them both. I don’t need men, I don’t want men.

I stand in the middle of my living room, breathing hard. Dashing away the tears that have no place.

Then I walk back into the kitchen, carefully washing the used wine glasses and putting them away. I collect Scott’s bottle from the coffee table, open it without looking at it, and pour it all down the sink. It’s fucking rosé. I don’t even like rosé, a watered-down wine for people who can’t commit to a color.

Is that how he sees me? Does he even know me at all?

The bottle goes in the trash, forgotten.

I grip the edge of the sink, steadying myself.

Maybe I was harsh on him. I took out my fury at Van Wyk on him, and that wasn’t fair.

Was Scott right? Do I want him? Will I be calling him within the week, apologizing?

Maybe that would be prudent. A brief text, not a call. Just something to…

No. No.

I do not want a man like him.

The image of Van Wyk comes to mind, unbidden. Strong, older, experienced, body so lean and hard. His hands on me, holding me like I’m his.

Fuck. What is wrong with me?

I don’t want him, either.

It was one night, gone and forgotten. Or gone, at any rate.