Page 57 of Captive Ruin

I huff against my arm. “I am so fucking not yours.”

He doesn’t argue the point, and his thumb keeps brushing against my neck. I try to move my head away, but it doesn’t deter him. I can’t reconcile that gentle touch with the actions of this man. He treats me like property one moment, something precious the next.

It’s confusing.

“You were married,” I say, the words slipping out. I don’t know why I’ve gone there.

“Yes.”

“How long?”

“Twelve years.”

That’s a long damn time to be married for a man who’s a borderline psychopath. “Kids?”

“No.”

I want to ask why not, but that sounds too personal even in my head. “You said she died. How long ago?” No less personal, but I feel like I have a right to know.

“Ten months, now. Last December.”

It’s not long enough. That’s grief that hasn’t settled. He misses his wife, and I’m filling that hole. He’s already calling me his, but this isn’t about me at all. It’s simply comfort, to a man that’s hurting.

It doesn’t excuse his actions—any of it. But maybe I understand a little more.

“How old was she?” I ask quietly.

“Thirty-four.”

“Way too young.” I bite at my lip, thinking of it. Twelve years married, in their prime, and a dead wife. “What was her name?”

“Juliette.” His voice softens.

“It… uh… must be difficult.” No shit, Sherlock. “Getting over her, I mean.” Great. That makes it better.

But I want him thinking that he isn’t over her, and I’m not the solution.

“To be honest, it’s a relief,” he says. “For both of us, I think.”

What?

Both who… him and Juliette, or him and me?

“Uh… I…” …don’t know what to say to that.

He doesn’t speak for so long I think the conversation is done. I’m lying there, wondering how insane this man is, when his voice comes again. “She was ill.”

I wait for him to say more, but he doesn’t.

“A long illness?” I ask tentatively.

He clears his throat. “Nine years.”

Whoa.

Almost all the time they were married.

He watched her fade away.