Page 30 of Captive Ruin

How dare he?

“Fuck you,” I say, but it’s not harsh enough. “Fuck you!” My voice rises in pitch, and I push all I have into it, then open my mouth to scream.

His hand flies out, gripping my neck. My scream dies in my throat. He leans forward, until he’s almost touching me. “I wanted to do this the easy way,” he says quietly. “But I’m not averse to doing it your way.”

“My way?” I gasp out over his hand. “My way is to—”

“Your way is to push me, test me,” he replies. “I’ll allow a small amount, if that’s what’s necessary for you to feel certainty. But I don’t like it, and I have little tolerance for it.”

I’m gaping at him in disbelief that he could be so arrogant when he grabs my shoulder, spinning me around. I’m forced against the wall, my cheek pushed to the cool paint, his body pressing against my back, and his hand grips the nape of my neck.

I whimper in fear, so very conscious of his weight pinning me, my robe no protection. “I’m meeting friends—”

“You won’t be going,” he says like he was waiting for it. No tone of surprise, no hesitation, simply utter indifference for whatever plans I’ve made, wholly irrelevant now that he’s here.

He grips the back of my robe, yanking hard. It’s off my shoulders and halfway down my back before I can clutch at it.

“Not going to cut it off?” I can’t help the scathing retort. Maybe it’s not wise to provoke him, but I’m too angry to care. “Forgot your karambit?” I googled it. I don’t know why, save that I kept seeing that knife in my dreams.

“No, I have it. Is that your preference?”

I scream. It’s all I have left. I aim it toward the window, and the incessant traffic beneath it. People hurrying by, no idea of what’s happening in here.

But I won’t get help from them. If I get any at all, it needs my neighbors to do more than hear it as just another argument and turn up their TV.

His fingers slide around my neck, wrapping around my throat, closing off my air.

“Oh, shush,” he says in irritation. “We both know you want me here.”

“What?” I gasp out. He’s dreaming. He’s delusional. “I do not want you here, and I do not want this.”

“You’re lying to both of us,” he murmurs, breath warm on my ear. “We don’t need this, do we?” He tugs again at my robe.

“Yes, we really do.”

But it doesn’t stop him forcing my hands down so he can work it off my arms, until it pools at my feet, leaving me naked, facing the wall, head lowered, breathing shallow.

But nudity isn’t vulnerability; powerlessness is. And that was my state the moment he arrived at my door.

“Very beautiful,” he breathes, something akin to reverence in his tone. “Hands behind your back, please.”

“No.” I don’t even have to think. He can say please all he likes; if I do that, he has the cuffs.

“Amelia,” he says in admonition, “we both know what’s going to happen. Do you want this easy, or difficult?”

I can’t move. I couldn’t bring myself to obey him even if I wanted to. My legs are weak, my blood pounding in my ears. I can only think of what’s still to come.

He waits long enough to see that I’m not going to cooperate, then grips my wrist, pulling one arm behind my back. I don’t have the strength to stop him.

“Why are you making this so hard?” he asks as he closes a cuff around my wrist, the leather lined with something soft, like velvet. He tightens the buckle, then pulls my other wrist back against my attempts to stop him. I wince as my shoulder protests.

“It wouldn’t hurt if you didn’t fight.”

I clench my jaw. “Sorry if every other girl you’ve been with bends over on command.”

“So will you, soon enough.”

His words cause images in my mind that I shove away. “Never,” I bite out.