Page 4 of Captive Ruin

“Listen,” I try, “I’m sorry that—”

“Be quiet.”

“No, I don’t think I will be,” I hiss, my arm hurting and my fear and anger vying for attention. “If you don’t let go of me, right-fucking-now, I’m going to scream for security.”

“Go ahead,” he replies. “I am security.”

What?

I stare at him. It has to be a bluff. His tuxedo is as slick and smart as the best in the room, and the watch on his wrist costs more than my rent.

“I don’t believe you,” I say as he manhandles me past the bar set against the back wall.

“Then fuck around and find out.”

Fine, whatever. I’ll brace through whatever bullshit lecture he’s dragged me out here for, then I’m gone, Serranto’s hairs safely in my clutch. Except we’re running out of gallery, and people. He seems to be steering us toward a hallway marked for the restrooms. Maybe there’s a security office down there, and he is who he says he is.

Or maybe not.

“You can’t do this.”

“You’re a gatecrasher. I very much can.”

“So what?” I force a laugh, and it sounds high and tight in my own ears. “A slap on the wrist, a misdemeanor at worst.”

“Not when our lawyers hit you with a corporate espionage suit.”

I stare at him. “What?” He can’t be serious.

“Private event, and you’re not on the list. We take such things very seriously.”

“You can’t do—”

“I told you to be quiet.”

I fall silent, real fear gripping me now, my anger fading fast. I’ve done what I set out to do. I just want to leave this room full of people who don’t give a damn, but he’s taking me farther away from the exit.

We pass the men’s room, and I’m relieved that we haven’t stopped, or worse, turned in. Where the hell is he taking me? The last thing I want is to be alone with him. Maybe if he’d asked nicely, at one point this evening I’d have considered it, given the body under that tux and those intense steel-grey eyes. But that ship has sailed.

The ladies’ room is coming up on the other side of the hallway, but he doesn’t veer for that, either. Ahead, there’s a door outside, a red exit sign dimly lit.

“Where are we going?”

He doesn’t reply, merely pushes the bar to open the door.

It’s a roof terrace, halfway up this skyscraper, the remaining floors looming over us. We’re on the fifteenth floor, the view impressive if I were in the mood to consider it. A few dim fairy lights sit on a handful of wooden tables, with cushioned loungers scattered about. It’s mild for October. This could be romantic if I weren’t being strong-armed.

The thought almost makes me laugh, it’s so ludicrous. But it dies in my throat when I see we’re not alone. There’s a man out here.

He turns as we walk out, sees Van Wyk, and straightens.

“Give me your jacket,” Van Wyk snaps, “then go back inside and ensure we’re not disturbed.”

The man doesn’t hesitate. He shrugs out of his tux jacket, leaving him in a dress shirt, hands it to Van Wyk and walks through the door we just exited from. He doesn’t even glance at me.

Does everyone obey him?

I’m alone on a roof terrace with a man who’s just threatened to sue me into oblivion, and told another to ensure we’re not disturbed. A tremble runs through me.