Page 2 of Ruined

I'd failed.

"We'll get past this," he said. His voice was a fraction milder now, his attempt to soothe me after what I'd done. Him and me against the world. That was what he wanted.

We were never going to happen. Not like that. He was too short-tempered and aggressive for my taste. Too much of a hothead. I preferred men who weren't rash and snappy. Sooner or later, he'd realise I meant it when I said I wasn't interested. Not in him.

Not in anyone except the one man who was completely out of my league. There was no way he'd look twice at me, but my heart ignored my attempts to tell it that. Either way, Kurt Lasalle wasn't my future.

"Are you listening?" Kurt snapped, reminding me again why I should keep my distance from him.

"Yeah," I lied. I'd tuned him out for the last couple of minutes.

"Good, then we understand each other. You know why I need to do what I need to do next."

"Mina?"

I awoke so violently, I almost threw myself off the side of the bed. The covers were tangled around my legs. My body was slick with sweat. I wasn't in the car with Kurt, and I wasn't chained in a filthy cage in a dank basement.

The mattress underneath me was comfortable, the room clean and tidy. Like everything else in Reuben Brantley's house.

It took a moment to register that someone else spoke. I wasn't alone.

As if he knew he occupied a place on the edge of my dream, Reuben sat on the side of the bed. He was dressed only in a pair of black, silk pyjama pants. The early morning light that slipped between the curtains illuminated the frown etched on his brow.

"You were dreaming," he said. "Or having a nightmare."

I pushed myself up to sit back against the pillows. "I'm sorry if I woke you."

"You didn't." He rested his weight on the palm of his hand, and made no move to touch me.

He seemed to know when I'd be more likely to freak out. Clearly uncomfortable at the prospect, he held himself back, more tightly controlled than usual. Which was saying something, given how controlled he generally was.

"I was already awake," he added.

I glanced at the clock on the bedside table. One of those old-fashioned ones with an analog face and little feet.

"It's not even six o'clock in the morning yet." My eyes lingered on the grooves of his abs and the light sprinkling of hair on his chest. Unless he had one hidden under his pants, he had no tattoos. That didn't surprise me. There weren't too many people he'd trust to go anywhere near him with a needle. Besides, his body was a work of art without one.

"Is it?" he asked. "The day is half over then."

I snorted softly. He wasn't given to joking overtly, but he had a sense of humour, even if he wouldn't admit to it.

"Do you want to talk about it?" he asked quietly. Like everything else about him, his voice was understated and controlled. I wasn't sure if he knew how to shout, even if he was inclined to. He didn't need to. If Reuben Brantley spoke, people listened.

"I don't remember it," I lied.

Parts of it were vague, like they always were. The bits that lingered in my memory… I couldn't explain. Not yet. I wanted to. I needed to. But I needed to find Kurt first and kill him. Before that, I couldn't risk Reuben not understanding what happened that night.

Then there was the additional concern that he might not want an assassin living under his roof. No, his response was a variable I couldn't control, even though he made it clear how he felt about me. That I was his.

I was sure he must see right through me, into my thoughts, but he nodded.

"I can have a therapist come to the house," he offered. "A discreet one."

I appreciated his offer. I even considered it. Five years of being chained up, tortured and used, would fuck anyone up. Five years of dwelling on what happened that night and being so sure I deserved everything Kurt did to me.

I fought him at first, or at least, I tried to. Between the chain, the cage, the lack of food and guilt, fighting was difficult. Once I realised it got him going, I stopped. All he got from me were occasional bouts of anger or frustration. Most of the time, all I really wanted was to die so it could end.

"I'll think about it," I said.

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