Page 72 of Captive Ruin

He thinks I’m his, but I’m not.

The playfulness between us has gone—if it was ever there, if I didn’t imagine it. The Van Wyk of old has returned, commanding me, threatening me. Is this how he deals with everyone? No wonder the man never smiles.

I could ignore him. I could refuse. I could stay right where I am, clutch my robe around me, stare at the dinner table.

But I know what he’d do: exactly what he was going to do anyway, only worse. I’ve already ‘earned’ a punishment, and I know he hasn’t forgotten. Do I want to provoke him further?

I lift my chin, square my shoulders. Hating that once again, I have no choice. I walk into my room and stand before the window, looking out at the night, but seeing only my reflection, illuminated by the soft light of my lamp. I’m trembling to my core.

Is it rage? Is it fear? Dare I admit it’s anything else?

He’s going to do what he wants, and I can’t stop him.

Part of me likes it. That’s the fucked-up thing. Part of me always has, even from that very first night on the terrace.

I cross my arms over my chest, fingers digging in so hard because I want the pain.

Damn him. He can go to hell.

I may not be able to escape, but I’m not lying down for him.

He doesn’t keep me waiting long.

His footsteps are silent. I know he’s there even though I can’t hear him, watching him in the reflection of the window. He steps up behind me with a hint of sandalwood and bergamot.

His proximity makes the hairs on my neck prickle. Anticipation knots my stomach and sends heat through me, pooling between my legs. My chest tightens, breaths stuttering and speeding. I keep my gaze on the window, unwilling and unable to turn around.

“I thought I told you to remove that robe and get onto the bed.”

His breath is warm against my skin as he watches me watching him in our reflection.

I can’t resist the shiver that runs through me. Bit by bit, my whole body is coming alive, every nerve ending straining toward him, waiting for whatever he’s going to do. Every passing moment heats my body, tightens my nipples, making every inch of my skin prickle until I’m trembling with a need I don’t want.

His hands slide around my waist. I’m so wound up, I flinch. His chuckle is a hot gust against my neck. He unties the knot of my belt and opens my robe, taking his time. In the window, his eyes remain on mine even as my nakedness is revealed.

The urge to stop him surges through me. But what’s the point? It’s inevitable. There’s nothing I can do to fight him. He’s bigger, stronger, faster. Worse, he’s slowly but surely chipping away at my defenses. Even now, after he sent me a severed finger, broke into my apartment and ordered me around, part of me is drawn to him. I can’t deny it.

But a louder part of me refuses to give in. “I don’t want this.” There. That leaves no doubt.

He pauses in the window’s reflection, studying me for a moment, then pulls my robe from my shoulders, baring me, and places a kiss on my skin. It’s strangely gentle.

“I said—”

“I heard.” He cuts me off, but his voice is soft. “You want me to take control, so you can deny you had any part in it.”

“That’s not true.” It comes out tense and breathy, my voice catching.

I hope it’s not true.

“I think it is.”

I barely have a second to register my robe sliding off me, pooling on the floor at my feet, then his hand closes on the back of my neck. He holds me, his grip tight enough that it almost hurts. Helplessness and vulnerability war with my arousal, and a whimper slips out that I can’t control.

“It’s fine, we’ll do it your way,” he murmurs.

What’s that supposed to mean? What’s my way?

But there’s no chance to consider it before he drags me around, pushing me toward the bed. I gasp with the force of it. He keeps me held as he whisks the duvet off, letting it crumple to the floor, then pushes me forward. The edge of the bed catches my legs, and it’s either cooperate or fall.