Page 3 of Captive Ruin

“A gallery owner in Connecticut,” I say with a glance to Van Wyk, who’s not even looking at Serranto but is focused on me, his intense stare disconcerting. I plow on anyway. “You thought you’d handled that, didn’t you? But I found her. I have a statement from her, too.”

“You can’t prove anything,” Serranto hisses, his face reddening.

I reach up and tweak a pinch of hairs from his head, and he’s not fast enough to pull back in time. I use the moment to unzip my clutch, juggling my champagne glass as I retrieve the tissue I prepared, carefully wrapping up what I’ve taken. “DNA is proof enough.” I tuck the tissue safely away. “Natasha will be very interested in the results of the paternity test. Lucy too, no doubt.”

Van Wyk folds his arms, the action tightening his tuxedo across his biceps. It’s irritating that even in this moment, part of my mind is so very aware of every movement that body makes.

“You bitch.” Serranto’s face has turned purple, ugly with rage, and his hands clench into fists.

I zip up my clutch. “Like I said, stay away from—”

He grabs my wrist, hard enough that I feel the bones grind, making me cry out in surprise and pain. His other hand tries for my clutch, but I’m too fast, pulling it out of his reach. He knocks my champagne glass, and it falls to the floor, smashing on the marble.

No one seems to care. A few heads turn at the sound, pause long enough to see who I’m with, then their eyes slide away again.

It’s a goddamn charity gala. Rich people ostensibly here to do good things, yet none of them come to my aid? A public presence was my defense for just this eventuality, and no one cares?

Even Van Wyk hasn’t intervened, the bastard, and he’s heard everything. Instead, he’s watching me like a curious form of entertainment, as if waiting to see how I’ll respond.

I’m on my own.

I glare at Serranto. “Get. Your hand. Off. Me.”

“Give me that clutch,” Serranto hisses.

“Do you want to add an assault charge with a room full of witnesses?” I tug my wrist, twisting against his thumb, and the move breaks his grip. My wrist is red where he held me, but that’s not why my eyes are stinging.

It’s his audacity. Van Wyk’s utter dispassion. My outrage.

I step back quickly, glaring at him, at Van Wyk too for standing there and doing nothing. “You’re both assholes,” I spit, riding my anger, and both these men are equally to blame. “Impotent bastards picking on—”

“Excuse me?” Van Wyk cuts through sharply. His lips are pressed thin, his eyes have narrowed. There’s real fire in their depths, but I don’t care.

Serranto laughs cruelly, like I’ve just made my last mistake.

“You heard me,” I say through gritted teeth. “You’re both the same. Men like you, thinking you can just do what you want without consequence. Well, let me tell you—”

Van Wyk steps forward. He’s so damn fast I barely have a chance to register him closing the gap, before his hand finds my arm. His grip is solid, fingers biting into my flesh. “What did you call me?” His voice has dropped an octave, dangerously quiet.

I swallow. “I called you an asshole.” And I’m regretting it now.

“She called you a bastard,” Serranto adds with relish. “And impotent.”

God, I hate that guy.

“Come with me,” Van Wyk growls.

He doesn’t give me a chance to refuse but shoves me forward, keeping me just in front of him as he marches us through the gallery, away from the main doors. His grip is unshakable, and I know I’ll have bruises on my arm tomorrow. But I’m more worried about what’s going to happen right now.

We’re leaving Serranto behind; that’s the only positive.

“I’m not going anywhere with you,” I bite out, trying to pull my arm free with no effect. “Let go of me. I’m going home.”

Van Wyk doesn’t reply. We pass a couple, then another. They glance at Van Wyk, then look away. They don’t even make eye contact with me.

Who the hell is this guy that no one dares intervene?

Shit. Maybe I’ve got it all wrong. Maybe Serranto wasn’t the dangerous one after all.