Page 193 of Captive Ruin

“Amelia?” he prompts, with a hint of amusement at my distraction.

What was the question? “Uh… good.” Shit. Should’ve said ‘fine.’

“I’m glad.” He smiles. “When are you going to cook for me?”

The idea calls to my competitive side, and I welcome the diversion from my thoughts. “What do you like?”

“Everything.”

I tilt my head. “Really? Nothing you won’t eat?”

The corners of his mouth curl up. “If I answer that question I’ll know exactly what you’d cook.”

He might have me there. “But if you don’t, you might be disappointed.”

His grey eyes go all intense. “You could never disappoint me.”

My cheeks heat, and I look down at my plate. “I’ll need to go shopping.”

“Get groceries delivered.”

Of course: he doesn’t want me to go out. “It’s not the same as walking through the store and getting inspiration on the fly.”

He cuts a piece of steak, pops it in his mouth, chews and swallows, all while he’s regarding me. “Fine. Take the Ferrari if you like.”

I blink. Freedom, so easily offered? There must be a catch. “With Tony?”

“He’s gone, remember?”

My eyebrows go up. “You’re letting me out by myself? And you don’t mind?”

“Yes, I mind,” he says quietly. “It scares me. I want you safe.” He holds up a hand to forestall an interruption I wasn’t about to make. “But safe isn’t enough. I also want you happy.”

My heart skips a beat, and I find myself gazing at him.

I blink, looking away. “I’ll try not to get myself kidnapped again.”

His eyes go hard. “If you were, I would turn this world over until you were back with me.”

“Yeah, I know. And it would take you about ten minutes.” It’s true. It’s also strangely reassuring. “All right, I’ll go later this week. Dinner, one evening on me, and you can clean the kitchen.”

He doesn’t miss a beat. “Then you’re cleaning tonight.”

“Deal,” I say, feeling like I’ve won. He’s already cleared most of the dirty pans away; there’s hardly anything left to do.

But I’ve just agreed to feed him, cook for him, spend another evening with him. Have I won, or has he?

What am I doing? Playing at domestic life with a man who’s kept me prisoner for months?

“You’re thinking seriously again,” he says lightly.

Okay, let’s have it out.

I pick up my glass of wine and lean back in my chair. “Am I still your captive?”

“You’re free to leave whenever you want,” he says, like my question doesn’t faze him at all.

“You don’t mean that.”