Page 6 of Captive Ruin

“You didn’t choose,” he says quietly. “So we’ll go with both options.”

Two

Amelia

“One scream,” I gasp against his grip, “and they’ll all come.”

He tilts his head, his gaze on my face, dropping to my mouth, and running on down my body.

“You’re flushed,” he murmurs.

“Of course I’m flushed,” I retort. “You’re pinning me to a fucking wall.”

“Your lips are parted, your breathing is light, and your nipples are hard.”

What the hell is he implying?

“It’s cold out here—”

“No, it isn’t.” His hand drops away from my throat. “Shall we see if you’re wet?”

“No!” Is he serious? I try to squirm away, but the wall gives me nowhere to go. Both my wrists are locked in one hand, and he’s not even straining. That body isn’t just for show. He’s so goddamn strong.

His hand doesn’t push between my legs like I braced for. Instead, he’s holding an object, matte-black and difficult to see in the gloom. A blade snaps out, curved and wickedly sharp, shaped like a claw, the metal gleaming dully.

I freeze, fear rushing through me like ice.

“Scream, if you like,” he murmurs. “I don’t mind an audience. Do you?”

An audience? To what? Him murdering me?

“Keep still, my raven-haired beauty,” he warns.

His? I’m so far from his, but I swallow my protests. Keeping still isn’t difficult, not with fear locking every muscle in place. That knife is far too goddamn real, and so close. I do not want to be cut, but I can’t fight him off. He has a hundred pounds on me, solid muscles with not an ounce of fat.

The tip of his blade hooks my right strap, pulling the fabric taut enough for him to slide it beneath. There’s a snip, and my dress falls loose. That damn knife is sharp, cutting through like it was a single thread, not two inches of medium-quality silk-and-polyester blend.

Why does he even carry a weapon like this?

It’s all too surreal. I can’t focus on anything but the proximity of that blade, and how methodically he’s stripping away my defenses.

He does the same on the other side, and that one parts just as easily. He tugs me a fraction clear of the wall, so my shoulders are no longer pinning the material, and the fabric slips to my waist, bunching there.

Humiliation floods through me, and now my fear isn’t of being cut, it’s more primal. My only hope is that Van Wyk isn’t acting out of hate or rage. He’s composed and deliberate. Will he listen to reason?

“That’s enough… please…”

“Nice bra,” he murmurs, ignoring my begging.

Yeah, it is—a black lacy balconette, and he should never have been able to see it. He hooks the tip of his blade beneath the middle part, between the cups. A faint snick, and it falls open too.

Three hundred dollars from Agent Provocateur, a treat to myself, and I’ve barely worn it. Bastard.

So not the concern right now, Amelia.

But I can’t help it. It’s all too distant and thin, like it’s happening to someone else. I can’t persuade myself it’s real.

He folds the blade away and slides the knife back into his pocket. It’s only then that I realize I’ve stopped breathing, and take in air with a shudder. Brushing my ruined bra aside, he palms my breast, squeezing slow, like he has all night to decide what he wants from me. I whimper, and the sound comes out too close to the noises I make when I want this.