Twenty-Two
Amelia
“Your cheek’s not broken,” Van Wyk tells me. “I’ll get you an ice pack.”
He pushes himself up, heading for my kitchen.
“Second drawer of the freezer,” I say automatically, the words coming out hollow and numb.
“I know.”
Of course he knows. He seems to know everything.
My gaze falls on the dead bodies lying just a few feet away, and a wealth of tumultuous emotion rises up within me.
Horror. Fear. Anxiety over what he’s done, and what it might mean, and most perversely…
gratitude. I don’t know what would’ve happened if he hadn’t come, but I can guess that it wouldn’t have ended well for me or Lucy.
“Shouldn’t we… call the police?” I ask quietly, looking around at the destruction, the death.
“No need,” he says from the kitchen.
No need? “You killed two men, Van Wyk. We need to tell the police. I can explain how they broke in, and—”
“Amelia.” He cuts across me as he walks back in with an ice pack wrapped in a kitchen cloth.
“These men are not good men. We don’t need to worry about them being missed.
” He pauses beside me, looking around as if noticing for the first time where I’m sitting.
How close to the bodies I am. “Come on,” he says, bending to offer me an arm. “Let’s do this in the bedroom.”
I let him pull me to my feet, leaning on him as my legs tremble with adrenaline.
“Are you hurt anywhere else?” he asks.
“No. Just my cheek.” And my pride. My privacy.
I feel… violated. Not just me, but my apartment, my gallery.
“The gallery was burned down tonight,” I tell him, my throat closing up at the memory.
Tears prickle my eyes. I’ve lost everything, in one night.
I still haven’t had a moment to process it. “I think it may have been these men.”
Van Wyk clenches his jaw. “I’m sorry. I should’ve been here.”
“It’s not your fault. It is, once again, Serranto’s.” Even dead, he’s still making my life hell.
“Yet I feel guilty. It’s on me for not being… clearer.”
I’m not sure what he means by that, but my reply dies on my lips as he helps me through into the bedroom. It’s been trashed. The bed’s a mess, the dresser smashed, my clothes spread everywhere.
He sits me on the edge of the bed, and touches the ice pack to my cheek. I hiss at the contact.
“Sorry,” he murmurs. “Your painkillers are in the bathroom, right?”
“Yes…” Did I ever mention that?
“Hold this.” He puts my hand on the ice pack. “I’ll be right back.”
I watch him walk into the kitchen, pick a glass out of the cupboard and fill it with water. I’m here alone with a man who’s just killed two others right in front of me, after torturing one of them. A man who’s held me in this very bed, fucked me in this very bed.
And now he’s bringing me painkillers and a drink.
What do I make of that?
What would’ve happened if he hadn’t come?
Those men were perfectly clear when they told me what Serranto had in mind. On our last call, he all but told me I’d be on my knees within a week, both figuratively and literally.
This is what he had planned.
Maybe Van Wyk killed him after he sent these men. Maybe Van Wyk is lying, and he hasn’t killed him at all—but I don’t think that’s true.
If Van Wyk hadn’t come, would Lucy and I be forced to be ‘obedient little sluts’ for that bastard of a man?
Van Wyk comes out of the bathroom with the glass of water and two pills in his hand. He passes them to me, and I take them without asking, swallowing some water to wash them down.
“Thank you,” I say quietly.
“Of course.”
“Not just for the pills. For coming.”
He nods slowly. “I only wish I’d been here sooner.”
A metallic gleam catches my eye from the top of my dresser. I can’t think what it would be. It looks like it’s buried in the wood, but they’ve smashed it open. A screw wouldn’t gleam like that.
I push myself up, frowning, taking a step closer. It’s not just metal, it’s glass, too. A perfect circle, exposed by a gash in the top. I pick at it, pulling it out. There’s a cable running off the back of it, snagging on something in the dresser.
I know at once what I’m holding. It’s a camera.
My legs go unsteady again, and I grip the wall for support.
Why the hell is there a camera embedded in my dresser?
The dresser that faces my bed?
I turn to look at Van Wyk. He’s watching me, expression inscrutable.
What was it he said to me last night?
“Even when I’m not with you, I fill your thoughts and dreams.”
And stupidly, I thought he was bluffing.
Then this evening. “I wasn’t planning on coming, but…”
He saw them. That’s how he knew. That’s how he knows where everything is in this apartment. Where I put my gun. Where the bullets were.
And he had keys.
“You put cameras in my apartment?” I still can’t bring myself to believe it’s true.
“I did, yes.” There’s no guilt or remorse in his tone.
He’s watched me, in here. He invaded my privacy in every way imaginable.
Memories of all the things I’ve done assail me. Lying on my bed, directly opposite his goddamn camera. How dare he?
“How long has it been here?”
“Since just after the gala.” His reply is calm, almost off-hand, like he’d always have told me if I’d only asked.
Fuck. Two weeks.
“What?”
“I wouldn’t have known you had intruders tonight if I hadn’t seen them,” he replies, like it’s common sense.
“That’s no excuse!” I snap. My eyes narrow. “How many cameras did you put in my apartment?”
He doesn’t answer right away, head tilting like he’s counting. “Seven.”
“Seven?” I whisper. “Every room?”
“Yes.” He says it like he’s just answering a question, because I asked. No sense of intrusion or guilt.
I almost feel I have to explain. “Van Wyk… you can’t do that!”
“Why?” He appears truly confused. “You’re mine. I can do what I want with you.” A flicker of irritation crosses his features. “Would you please call me by my first name?”
“You had cameras in my bedroom!” I snap, anger climbing. On top of everything else tonight… this. It’s more than I can bear.
“Mostly to keep an eye on you and ensure your safety.”
“Mostly?” I bite out.
“I have quite enjoyed some late night footage of you and your toys.” A flicker of a smile crosses his lips. “Especially when you moan my name.”
Fuck. He heard. My cheeks scorch with humiliation, remembering all I’ve done.
I’ve lain right where he’s sitting, naked while I touch myself, using words he’s said to me.
And he’s seen it all. Heard it all.
Is that why he came back? Did I draw him to me, asking out loud for what I’d sworn I didn’t want?
Is this all my fault, from the very beginning?
No. It’s his.
“I fucking hate you,” I seethe. “I abhor you.”
Van Wyk stands up, lips twitching, like my rage amuses him. “Yes, you certainly sounded like you hated me when you cried out my name as you came. Now, are you ready to go?”
I stare at him. That’s the second time he’s claimed that, but I never said his name. Did I?
Then his question lands, and I blink. “Go where?”
“We can’t stay here.”
We’re so not done with this conversation, but I glance through the door to the living room, and the bodies lying amid the wreckage. He has a point. “No, I suppose not. I’ll… get a hotel.”
He shakes his head. “Not a chance. You’re coming with me.”
“I’m… what?” Is he serious? After he’s just killed two people? After I found out he’s been invading my privacy and mocking my sanctuary for weeks? He might be my monster, but he’s still a monster. “Absolutely not. I’ll go to my sister.”
“No. Serranto knew about her. That means they will, too.”
I stare at him as the blood drains from my face. How did I not see that?
“Fuck. I have to call her!”
“It’s the middle of the night, and I already have a man watching her apartment.”
“You… you… what?” I shake my head, trying to roll with the punches when I’m already so drained. “What do you mean you have someone watching her apartment?”
He glances at his watch. “A precaution. It seemed sensible when I learned they’d come here.”
How many men does he have? How can he do that?
“It’s time to go.” He takes my arm, his grip perhaps intended to be supportive, but all I feel is restraint.
I try to pull free, but his hand tightens. “I’m going to a hotel.”
“It’s not open to debate,” he says softly. “I want you safe, and the safest place is my house.”
“Your house?” I don’t need another glimpse into the living room to know how much of a mistake that would be. “Van Wyk—”
“—Lukas.” It’s almost a growl.
I take a breath, trying to speak calmly enough to mollify him when calm is the last thing I’m feeling. “Look, Lukas, I really appreciate all you’ve done, but I am not going to your house.”
“I said it’s not open to debate.” His voice has gone flat again, the same tone he uses when he’s talking about killing people or interrogating them with knives in their flesh.
“And I said no.” I’ve had enough, and my anger rises. I try to pull my arm away, but his grip doesn’t shift. “You’re hurting me. Let go.”
“No. We need to leave, and you’re being difficult.”
Difficult? I’ll show him difficult.
“I’ve had as much of this as I can take.
I’ve seen my gallery burned down, two men breaking into my apartment and trashing it, threats to me and to my sister.
And you!” I throw the word in his face. “Let’s not forget you!
You broke in here first! More than once!
” I laugh without mirth. “I don’t know why I bother with locks.
My apartment’s like a fucking tourist attraction. I’m not going with you.”
He checks his watch again. “We don’t have time to argue. We’ve already been here long enough.”
He starts dragging me toward the door no matter how much I plant my feet. He’s so much stronger than I am.
“Let go of me, goddammit, or I’ll scream!”
“Then I’ll gag you.”
I keep pulling back, but it doesn’t have any effect. In sheer desperation, I hit him with my free hand, again and again. His chest, his shoulder. A blow to his face. He blocks, catching my wrist.
“Little Stray,” he says through clenched teeth, “you’re trying my patience.”