Page 98 of Captive Ruin

“I pushed you further?” I say, incredulous. “You dragged me out into the cold—”

“It wasn’t that cold.”

“It was after you cut my dress off.”

He chuckles, a surprisingly congenial sound. “Would it be too late to apologize?”

“Hell yes.” Besides, he has so much to apologize for, it will be breakfast time before he’s finished.

And after the day I’ve had, I’m exhausted.

The house lights are on, spilling across steps leading up to the door. While Van Wyk walks around to let me out, I look up at the building. The windows run floor to ceiling, and the second floor has balconies.

Van Wyk opens my door, leaning over me to unfasten my seatbelt. It’s not been comfortable with my hands cuffed behind me, but what should I expect when I’m being kidnapped?

“You can take these off,” I say as I climb out of the car, turning to present my wrists to him.

“Are you going to bolt the second I do?”

I pause. “No?” I’m shit at lying.

He gives them a little tug. “They can stay. Besides, I like them on you.”

Déjà vu. We’ve had this conversation, back in my apartment last time he cuffed me, when I admitted they made me feel vulnerable and helpless.

They still do. More than that, they’re a reminder of what he does to me while I’m wearing them.

“Where do you expect me to go?” I ask, throat tight. “I don’t know where the hell we are, and there’s no bus stop outside your gate.”

“No, there isn’t.” He leads me toward the house, his captive. My mouth goes dry, my heart beats harder, and I drag my feet. I don’t want to go in. He won’t let me leave here come morning. I’ll need to escape.

I glance over my shoulder. The gates and fence are a dozen feet high. Mustn’t forget the guard. For now, I have to accept I’m a prisoner. Would playing willing buy me opportunities?

It’s almost too easy to see myself in that role, and that’s the scariest thought yet.

Would I lose myself in the process, seduced by this enormous house, his touch, the peace I might find here? Pretend that this is real, and everything else isn’t?

No. Fantasies are not reality.

We reach the door and a woman opens it from within. She’s middle-aged, matronly, with a ready smile, wearing a simple black skirt and a white blouse. And here I am, still cuffed with a gag loose around my neck. Awkward.

She steps to the side, giving him a deferential nod, like my appearance is perfectly normal. “Welcome back, sir.”

“Thank you.” He turns to me. “This is Linda, my housekeeper. And this, of course, is Amelia.”

Of course?

I look at him in surprise. Am I taking up as much space in his thoughts as he does in mine? A rush of something runs through me. Affection? No, it can’t be. But it’s… unexpected.

Linda gives me a warm smile. “We are very pleased to welcome you here.”

“Thank you,” I say politely, as we all pretend I’m here of my own will.

Beyond her, there’s an entrance hall with a marble floor with a mosaic, and a sweeping staircase. An ornate plant pot sits on a glass table, white orchids within. I expected more of a bachelor’s pad—or at least, fewer signs of a feminine touch.

“Are you hungry?” Linda asks me.

I hesitate. I probably should be, but I’m not. It’s partly the lateness of the hour, partly everything that’s happened. My gallery, the intruders. Being kidnapped.