Page 22 of Captive Ruin

I’m owning this now. It’s my fantasy, and it’s only a fantasy.

It’s not real anymore.

With a cry, I come, pressing my head back into the pillow, waves of pleasure mingling with my guilt and my self-disgust.

And I hear his voice again.

“Yes,” he hisses. “That is how you say sorry.”

Six

Lukas

“The good news is that the cameras are in and the feeds are routed to your personal drive.”

I switch my phone to my other ear, glare in irritation at the Origin Engineering exec whose whimpers are distracting, and focus on what Haynes has said.

“That implies there’s bad news.”

“Well, she does have a boyfriend.”

I grip my phone harder, clenching my other fist.

“Lukas? You still there?”

“Yeah, I’m still here.” Just regaining control. “Who is he?”

“I don’t know. You didn’t tell me to—”

“I’m telling you now, goddammit. And next time, show some initiative.”

Haynes is quiet for several seconds. “I’ll email you. Give me two hours.”

“I want everything there is, Haynes. I want to know exactly who this bastard is that’s…” Touching my girl.

“Leave it with me.”

Killing the call, I shove my phone back in my pocket.

So Amelia’s in a relationship. It was always a possibility, it just wasn’t one I wanted to consider.

What now?

It doesn’t change anything. My obsession with her has only grown in the three days since we met. I wondered if it would fade; it hasn’t.

Instead, thoughts of her plague my every waking moment. My dreams, too.

I don’t want to be here, in this dingy warehouse, in the middle of goddamn Seattle. What a dismal city. It’s raining outside, as usual, heavy grey clouds casting their gloom over the afternoon, and no doubt incrementing the already prominent suicide rate.

On the subject of early deaths, I turn back to Giles Cox, the Chief Revenue Officer of Origin Engineering.

He’s a portly man in his fifties, his skin pale and flaccid, cheeks and nose too rosy. His wrists are chained together, suspended from an iron beam above. One hand is missing a finger, the wound tracking a crimson trail down his wrist and arm. Elevation is good for the blood loss.

His shirt is off, his prodigious stomach bulging over his suit pants, chest hair matted with sweat and blood, cuts in neat little lines where we were just discussing Origin’s international trade before Haynes called.

“So that call was bad news,” I divulge. “I was doing okay, but it’s really put me in a foul mood.”

Cox whimpers again, desperately trying to pull away from me. It’s laughable; his toes are barely touching the ground.