Thirty-Nine #3
“Yeah, that’s more your style,” I mutter.
“But it’s grown,” he says earnestly. “It has, I swear.”
He’s making it worse. Doesn’t he understand this is my dream he’s trampling over? To be told someone loves me and mean it, not in this toxic way, but with genuine care? My eyes fill with tears of frustration, and I dash them away. “Are you even capable of love? I’ve seen no sign of it.”
He draws in a ragged breath, pushing his hand through his hair, a reminder that this man hasn’t slept for the last, what, thirty hours? But I can’t bring myself to feel mercy.
“I think so,” he says at last. “What I feel for you… it’s never been like this before.”
“Obsession isn’t love. Possession isn’t love.”
“It’s… related. Isn’t it?”
I hesitate. Is it? I don’t know. Maybe it is, with him. “Is that the best you can do?”
“No, Little Stray,” he says with a tenderness that threatens to undermine my resolve. “I can do so much more.”
I need to stay angry with him, but I’m so tired, so weak. It’s been an intense conversation, yet also our most honest. And possibly our longest.
It’s exhausting, and I feel the weight of it in my shaky limbs, my body running on nothing and barely recovered.
He said he loved me, more convincingly than I’ve ever heard it before. He’s sat in that chair for a day, watching over me, and I’m certain he hasn’t slept.
Balanced against what he’s done before? It’s confusing. I need time to process and to recover my strength.
I can’t fight him when I’m weak. Hell, I can barely fight him when I’m not.
“I… can’t do this right now.” I close my eyes, slumping against the pillow, fully expecting him to insist, to extract promises from me.
He doesn’t.
“It’s fine,” he says quickly. “We’ve made a start, right? Rest, and we’ll talk more when you’re stronger.”
“A start,” I mutter. “Six months since we met, and you call this a start, as if we’re beginning again, as if that’s even possible after all that’s happened. It’s not, and we both know it.”
He looks down at his lap. “Changes, then. Whatever it takes, Amelia, I swear—”
“No. Don’t swear.” I hold up a hand, stopping him. “I don’t want to hear it.” A breath, in and out. God, I’m so tired. “I need to rest.”
“Yes, of course.” He settles in his chair, uncrossing and recrossing his legs. “I’ll be right here.”
“No. I need you to leave.”
“You can’t be alone right now, Little Stray.”
Of course he won’t even grant me that wish. “Van Wyk—”
“Lukas. Please.”
“—I need you to leave.” I don’t know why I say it; I know he won’t.
But he rocks to his feet, unsteady, a hand on the back of the chair for support. I can only watch, waiting for him to lean over me, pin me down, and tell me there’s no escape. To claim I’m his. To threaten to kill any man who touches me.
He doesn’t. He releases the back of the chair and draws himself up, then walks with heavy steps toward the door.
“Where are you going?”
He doesn’t turn or pause. “Fetching Natalie. She can keep you company instead.”
But I don’t know Natalie. Hell, I don’t know anyone here.
I know him best of all, and that’s ironic, when I barely know him at all.
“Wait.” The word slips out before I’ve thought it through.
He stops dead, like I’ve tugged on his leash. And that’s a repulsive thought.
This isn’t a side of Van Wyk I’ve seen before. He seems… defeated. A shadow of who he is normally. It’s me, I know it is. I’m making him act this way.
I don’t like it. I don’t know what to do with a Van Wyk who defers to me. It’s deeply unsettling.
More unsettling than when he doesn’t?
At least that version of him is true to who he is.
“Sit back down?” Then so that it’s a request, not a command, I tag on, “Please?”
He turns to look at me. “Why?”
“I’ve changed my mind,” I say softly. “I don’t want you to leave.”
He’s dangerous, but I feel safe with him. He’s a killer, but he protects me. He’s my captor, but right now, he’s the one obeying.
He regards me for a long moment. “Were you pushing, Little Stray?”
“No, I was…” Angry. Confused. Hurt. “…testing.”
His head tilts to the side. “Did I pass?”
I can’t look at him, or answer. Tears fill my eyes, and I’m not even sure why. He so desperately wants my acceptance, and I can’t bring myself to give it to him. I don’t know if I’m broken, or justified. I’m too tired to tell.
“Just… sit down,” I mutter.
He makes his way back to his chair, his steps stronger. Sits down. Crosses one knee over the other and rests his hands on top, back straight, like he’s found a reservoir of energy, his confidence restored. “I’ll stay with you forever if you’ll let me.”
“And if I don’t?”
“Then I’ll do anything it takes to change your mind.”
Maybe that was supposed to be romantic or reassuring, but coming from him, all I hear is the threat.
“And if you can’t?” I whisper, not really wanting to know.
“Then I’ll try something different until I find what works.”
That’s more the Van Wyk I know, making declarations he can’t possibly uphold like they’re gospel, and then pulling it off anyway.
It’s familiar, it’s safe. And I like it.
Fuck, I’m so screwed.