Page 89 of Captive Ruin

Something smashes. Was that my TV?

I’m so not in the mood for this, not after the night I’ve had. Anger flares, replacing my weariness, and I open the door, stepping in.

“What the hell are you—”

The words die in my throat, a flash of cold chilling me to the bone. I freeze, horror replacing any turmoil.

It’s not Van Wyk.

Two other men are in my apartment, and they’re trashing it. The sofa is turned over, the TV’s on the floor, the screen smashed. The light’s dangling from the ceiling on its cable. The room is lit from the bedroom, the door open, my mattress ripped with stuffing spilling out, and my clothes strewn all over the room.

Nausea rises, sharp and acidic. My breath shortens into shallow pants. The terrible claws of fear sink deep, rooting me in place, and my body trembles. There are men in my apartment. Destroying it. I know I should run, call the police, but I can’t breathe, let alone move.

Oh fuck, what if they’re here to kill me?

Run, Amelia. Run, run—

The men grin as they see me, pure malevolence in their expressions. They’re both stocky, big men, one taller than the other but each capable of overpowering me. In reflex, I take a pace back, finally able to move, my pulse hammering in my throat.

“Grab her,” the tall one says. He has a thick, guttural accent I can’t place.

“Get your ass in here,” the short one snaps, coming for me.

I turn to bolt, but it’s too late. I barely make it into the hallway before his hand closes around my arm, his arm around my waist. I scream as he picks me up, kicking out, grabbing in futility at the walls and door as he drags me back into my apartment.

Oh God, I’m dead!

I fight with everything I have, feral, wild, trying to bite and scratch at his arm, kicking anything I can.

“Shut up,” he growls, slapping the side of my head hard enough to stun me. He kicks the door closed, keeping the neighbors from being bothered, and drags me into my apartment. He throws me onto the floor, and it knocks the wind from me. My ribs hurt, my knee smacks into the ruins of my coffee table. The taller man steps forward, grabbing my throat, cutting off my air.

“Try that again and see what happens,” he says, pulling out a knife.

I freeze, staring at it. It’s long and straight, not the curved blade Van Wyk uses, and so much more menacing than a gun because it’s quiet. He can do what he wants with that, and no one will hear.

I crouch at his feet, clutching at the hand around my throat, trying to draw breath. I know I’m done for. They’re either going to rape me or kill me—or both.

For a dissociative moment, I flash back to the terrace, and the fear Van Wyk put into me that first night. But this feels so different. This is malice, this is evil.

Van Wyk never felt like this. Dominant, yes. Merciless, maybe. But evil? Born of hate? Out to hurt?

Never.

These men aren’t like him. They’re far worse.

I yearn for my monster to save me with a sudden, violent ache that robs me of breath as effectively as the calloused hand squeezing the life from my throat. Why isn’t Van Wyk here?

Am I never going to see him again?

“What do you want?” I can’t help the tremble in my voice.

“Us?” He grins down at me, one gold tooth catching the light from the bedroom. “We don’t want anything.”

I don’t understand what he means. If not them, then who?

“How’s your gallery?” the short one asks, like it’s a curse. He laughs at his own question.

I stare at him, blood freezing in my veins, a shiver gripping me. They know. Are these the men who did it? Why? Who the hell are they?