Page 55 of Captive Ruin

And damn Van Wyk—or me again, for being so fucking stupid as to think he’d actually keep his word.

I sit on my sofa, staring unseeing at my TV, making my way through a tub of chocolate ice cream. But even that isn’t satisfying and I give up after only ten minutes, throwing it back into the freezer and heading to bed. I need sleep, I need a clear head.

I need options I don’t have.

I jolt awake. I’m not alone.

The room is dark.

Someone is pressing against my back. A man, his body firm and naked. His breath against my bare shoulders.

I jerk in reflex. My hands don’t move. Something has them bound to the headboard.

Adrenaline washes through me, instinct kicking in. One moment I freeze, the next I’m thrashing, my legs caught in the duvet, my arms straining at my shackles. There’s no escape. I scream, desperate to get away, but a hand closes around my throat, squeezing just enough to choke away my cry.

“Shh, my Little Stray.”

Van Wyk.

My chest is heaving, and it takes me several seconds to find my voice. “You scared the shit out of me, you bastard.”

“Don’t fret. You’re with me.”

“I wasn’t fucking fretting,” I hiss at him. “Release me and get the hell out of my apartment.” Then, as my wits return, I add, “How the hell did you get in?”

“Keys,” Van Wyk murmurs in my ear. His hips press against my ass, his cock hard and nestling between my cheeks. “I missed you; I couldn’t wait until morning.”

I try to squirm away, but his hand on my hip stops me. I can barely move with my wrists cuffed.

“You have keys to my apartment?” Like that’s the most important thing right now. I’m changing the locks, first thing tomorrow.

“Why wouldn’t I?” he asks, like it’s the most reasonable thing. “You’re mine.”

I’m lying naked in my bed with him, my wrists bound, as vulnerable as I’ve ever been. There’s no question what he came here to do, but he won’t get any response out of me. I’ll fight him every step of the way, with all of my spirit.

It’s all I’ve got left.

“No.” I shake my head. “No. I am so done with you. With Serranto. With men.”

Van Wyk goes still against me. “Serranto?” he asks, tone a hundred degrees cooler.

“Steven fucking Serranto,” I spit. “You remember him, don’t you? The man you promised would never bother me again?”

“Has he touched you?” Van Wyk growls, urgency in his voice.

I laugh, the sound brittle. “Why would you care?”

“Trust me, I care.”

“No, he hasn’t touched me.” My voice quavers with rage. “He’s blackmailed me. If I don’t give him my sister and myself, begging and on our knees, he’ll destroy my business.” I blink back tears of frustration.

“When was this?” Van Wyk bites off every word, like his rage is barely suppressed.

Maybe he does care. Or maybe he blames me. Who the hell knows?

“Today.” I feel a need to qualify. “He went straight back to Lucy—my sister—almost immediately after the gala. I told her to stay away from him. In revenge, he targeted my gallery.” The words are bitter on my tongue, not least because I know I’m wasting my breath. “I found out all about it today. He’s sabotaged an exhibition I had next week, and…” I don’t know how I’ll recover.

“How has he sabotaged it?” Van Wyk asks.