Page 5 of Captive Ruin

Van Wyk’s holding the jacket on the end of two fingers.

“I’m not wearing that,” I say. I didn’t shiver because I’m cold.

“I didn’t ask you to.” He drapes it over a nearby table, then pulls me closer to him. My bicep hurts, but he clearly doesn’t care. I’m very conscious of the proximity of his body. His cologne is a subtle fresh citrus and a distraction I don’t need. His steel-grey eyes bore into mine, and I swallow, my mouth dry.

“Good tables, these,” Van Wyk murmurs. “Very sturdy.”

I don’t know what the hell that’s supposed to mean. “It’s a lovely venue,” I agree cautiously.

“Lovely, yes,” he echoes, and moistens his lips.

That act shouldn’t have the impact it has on me, but I can’t look away. My pulse jumps to my throat, hammering against the skin. Air gets stuck in my chest. Is he about to kiss me?

What will I do if he does? Let him, then make my exit as soon as I can?

Is this why we’re out here? He wanted me alone?

I’m only conscious of his presence, ever so close to me, the hard lines of his body, the strength of his grip. The way he’s pulled me from the safety of other people’s company—not that they ever seemed to care—then threatened me with his ridiculous claim of a corporate espionage suit.

How dare he?

Anger mingles with confusion, and beneath it all, the inconvenient truth of how he affects me. But I want a nice man, not a bastard, and there’s no doubt which one he is.

Van Wyk walks me backward until my shoulders hit the wall. He releases my arm, but only to grip my wrists, shoving them straight up over my head, pinning them to the rough concrete. My clutch slips from my grasp, dropping to the ground.

I try to wrench free, but he simply tightens his hold without even straining. His eyes are inches from mine, watching me like he’s curious what I’ll do.

“This isn’t a security office.” There’s a quiver in my voice I can’t help, and I mask it with a glare. I’ve never felt so vulnerable, but I still try for the appearance of strength. “If you want a date, give me your number and I’ll call you in the morning.” As if.

He doesn’t release me or even reply. Instead, he presses closer, holding me helpless. Glancing down, his chest is almost brushing mine. I bite at my lip.

“What did you call me in there?” he asks, voice low, his grip tightening on my wrists.

I swallow hard. “I’m really sorry if I—”

“What did you call me?”

“An… an asshole.”

“And?”

Shit.

“And… a bastard. It wasn’t you, it was—”

“And?”

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

“And… uh…” I can’t bring myself to look at him. I can barely bring myself to say the word again, and it comes out as little more than a whisper. “…impotent.”

“I’m going to give you a choice,” he says, still pinning my wrists. But now he’s only using one hand, and the other comes up beneath my chin, forcing me to look at him. “You can either say sorry on your knees with your mouth, or you can refuse. Then I’ll bend you over one of these tables, and spank your ass.”

My heart stops. My breath catches. Outrage and anger flare. Then my pulse returns, thudding hard in my ears.

“Where the hell do you—” I break off with a shake of my head. “No. Hell no. You let me go right now, or—”

The hand beneath my chin grips my throat, pushing me against the wall, squeezing enough to cut me off.