Page 58 of Captive Ruin

“My God,” I whisper. “I’m… so sorry.”

And I am.

He’s more human in this moment than he’s ever been, and my heart goes out to him.

No wonder it was a relief she died. Maybe he is done grieving; he’s had nine years of it.

He falls quiet, and I lie there, cuffed to my bed, thinking of the life he’s led, the marriage that he lived through. Juliette, fading away and dying before his eyes.

His thumb never ceases brushing the back of my neck, and it’s both soothing and soporific. I don’t intend to, but I fall asleep.

Fifteen

Lukas

Leaving Amelia before she awakes is harder than I thought it would be.

But I have work to do, and not for Bastien.

This is for me.

I dress in the dark, silent in her room, watching her sleeping peacefully. Then I unbuckle one of the cuffs, so she can free herself more easily after I’m gone. I want her to know I took the trouble.

I like that she doesn’t even stir, as if she’s comfortable with me at some subconscious level, though I do miss seeing her deep green eyes before I abandon her. So beautiful.

But leave I must. I’ve failed her trust. I thought I’d been perfectly clear to Serranto. Evidently, I was wrong.

It’s time to go and correct that oversight.

I let myself quietly out of her door, closing it behind me with a click. That might’ve woken her, but it’s four in the morning. With any luck, she’ll sleep on.

Once outside, I pull out my phone and call the 24/7 number that puts me through to special operations at Sentinel Risk.

Caller ID introduces me. “Mr. Van Wyk, sir.”

“Log into Northbridge’s database and pull the guest list for the gala on the seventh of this month. I want the address of Steven Serranto.”

There’s a warehouse in Red Hook that Northbridge owns, the title buried under a holding company or two. It’s quiet, out of the way, with a basement room soundproofed from the world outside. I’ve used it before, but it’s Haynes’s place really. He won’t mind me borrowing it.

There’s a faint glow on the horizon when I pull up. Serranto glares at me when I open the trunk. His wrists are bound with cable ties and there’s a welt on his cheek, but the ride has given him time to gather his bluster. “I don’t know what you’re playing at, Lukas, but you need to know I have friends.”

“I don’t give a shit. Get out.”

“They won’t take kindly to this,” he barrels on. “Take me back to my apartment, right fucking now, or I swear—”

I reach in, drawing my blade down his chest, leaving a bloody red line. He yells in shock and pain, fear replacing his defiance.

“Get out, or the next thing I cut comes off.”

“You asshole,” he gasps, but swings his legs over the lip. I help him with a grip on his hair, pulling him upright. He’s still trying to get control of the situation. “I’m not who you think I am, Van Wyk. I’m not just an art dealer—”

“Stop running your mouth, and get in the warehouse.” I shove him forward.

Twelve feet to the door, but it’s too early for anyone to be around. Besides, if anyone sees me with a half-naked paunchy man wearing just boxers, they’re thinking worse things than the truth, and won’t be the least bit inclined to investigate.

It’s dark inside, and Serranto curses as he stubs his toe on debris on the floor. I almost laugh, shoving him ahead of me to the back of the space, down a staircase to the basement. He stumbles on shaky legs, taking in the concrete walls, bare bulbs and large empty space. I slam the steel door closed behind us, shutting out the world.

“What the hell is this place? Who the hell are you, Van Wyk?”