Forty #2
He closes his eyes as if in pain. “I can do better. I will do better.”
He sounds so desperate, and I hate hearing that note from him.
“Then prove it,” I find myself saying.
Wait. Am I throwing him a bone? Did I mean to do that?
I almost retract it, but his eyes light up with hope. “I will,” he says earnestly. “Anything you want.”
“So you said in Montana,” I mutter.
He nods. “And you’re stronger now. Are you… feeling recovered?”
There it is: the tiptoeing.
“I’m fine.”
“Fine… good fine, or fine as in… just okay? Or not fine? Or—”
It’s my turn to cut him off. “Fine. As in good enough.”
“All right,” he says slowly. “Then it’ll be my job to make ‘good enough’ into ‘great.’ Will you give me that chance?”
I look away. Part of me is tempted, I have to admit. The things he’s said, the effort he’s making. I’m drawn to him; I accept that. It’s not healthy, it’s dangerous. He’s a dark fantasy, but while part of me can’t seem to resist his allure, a fantasy like this should never become real.
What do we have between us? A relationship? No, unless it’s of captor and captive. A marriage? That’s a joke. We’re not friends, we’re not even lovers—being pinned down doesn’t count. We can’t be enemies; he’d destroy me. There’s been too much between us for there to be nothing. I’m out of labels.
And out of choices.
“I… can’t,” I say slowly.
He swallows hard, throat constricting. “May I understand why?”
“Your life is too… violent.”
“And if it wasn’t?”
I gesture in helpless frustration. “How can it not be? I don’t want to have more men breaking into my apartment, or more people like Serranto around.” Except that would’ve happened even without Van Wyk. He saved me from it.
Am I wrong? Does he bring more protection than threat?
I shake my head. “I’m sorry, the answer is no. I won’t be kept a prisoner any longer, just because I’ll be attacked if I go out, because of you.”
“I’ve resigned,” he says quietly, still speaking to that piece of carpet.
“What?”
“I told Bastien this morning. I’ve quit. Haynes’s death was a catalyst, but I’ve been thinking about it since… Montana.”
Since he found me, he means.
“Why?” Is he quitting for me? I have to know.
“The Volkov situation kept me from you for too long,” he says. “And you’re right. This isn’t a life for you, living like this. I want to give you the life you deserve.”
Shit. He did do it for me. “Why else?” I ask, hearing the urgency in my tone. “What other reasons?”
He looks up. “What do you mean?”
I search around for something to say. I don’t want to lead him, to suggest he might be sick of killing people, or the violence, or having to go everywhere with a karambit like other people carry a Swiss army knife.
They need bottles opened and screws tightened; he needs clothes removed and throats cut.
“I just wondered if there were… other reasons.”
“Well, the timing is good. Bastien can find a replacement. I’ve agreed to stay on for a short while, strictly in an advisory capacity.”
So he is doing it for me. I’m not sure how to feel about that. “I don’t want you to… resent this.”
He shakes his head. “Never. You’re far more important.” He hisses in a breath through his teeth. “Does that change anything? Will you… let me prove it to you?”
I hesitate. “I don’t know, Van Wyk. It’s a lot to ask.”
He’s out of his chair and across the room, dropping to one knee before me. “I’ve never been one to shy away from a challenge. All I’m asking for is the chance.”
The hope in his eyes pulls at me. There’s more emotion in this moment than in all of his apologies—which were shit. But at least he tried. And he’s trying now; it’s the tone in his voice, the set of his body, the naked yearning in his expression.
The vulnerability of kneeling before me.
Maybe he deserves to beg on his knees, but I don’t like seeing him there. The aspects of him I do like are his unshakeable confidence, the way he just makes things happen. His dominance, too, if I’m honest. This… isn’t him.
What if I agree, and in an effort to please me, he changes who he is?
What if I agree, and he can’t change who he is?
Do either of us know who he’d need to become? I’m not sure I do.
“What if I don’t like what I find?” I ask.
“You will,” he promises fervently. “I’m more than what you’ve seen. I’ve wanted to show you, and now I can. You’ll see—I’ll make you the center of my world.”
“That’s not healthy,” I mutter in reflex. Even if it does sound kind of nice.
“I can’t help how obsessed I am with you.”
And that’s a very Van Wyk answer. He’s never apologized for his obsession, as if for that, he’s not sorry.
Maybe he doesn’t need to change at all. Maybe it’s me. Maybe I need to better understand him.
“One chance,” I say wearily.
He lets out a rush of breath.
“Thank you,” he says very formally. “You won’t regret it.” He pushes himself up, straightening his clothing. “I’ll leave you for now; I’m sure you’re tired. Tomorrow?”
God, it’s like being paid a visit by Mr. Darcy.
“Tomorrow,” I agree, wondering what I’m agreeing to.
He walks out without another word, his head held high. Done what he came to do, and now he’s left.
And all I can think is that Van Wyk just quit his job for me. Apologized to me. It might’ve been the most cringe-worthy, awkward, stilted way that anyone has ever said ‘I’m sorry,’ but for him, it was a giant leap.
It’s only later that I think of all the other things he didn’t apologize for. Pinning me down. Spanking me. His velvet-lined cuffs. Forcing orgasms on me. Tying me to his bed.
If he didn’t see them as wrong, he must see them as right.
Can fantasy and reality coexist?
It gives me some hope.