Page 43 of Unlocking Ruin

Should I lean into his desire, with the hope that he’ll let me go?

Do I want to be free when someone else is hunting me?

“You haven’t asked me who your father is,” Steffen mutters. “Do you hate him?”

“How can I hate a man I never knew?”

“He didn’t know about you for a long time, but once he did, he cared very much. I don’t know if that helps.”

“Do you know him? Do you work for him?”

“That’s a grey area.”

“Paint it for me.”

His lips tug into a crooked smirk. “All I have is grey or black. Nothing pure comes from blood like ours.”

“Ours?”

“No, we’re not related. But our families are close.”

Abruptly, he stands and walks to the coffee table Torben put the tray on. He grabs the tray and sets it beside me. I glance at the food—baked chicken, veggies, a side salad, freshly baked bread with steam pouring out so quickly it’s melting the tiny dish of butter. It smells like something from a five-star restaurant. I can’t help but smile when I spot a Tootsie Roll on the side.

“Do you really like them, or were you eating the candy no kid wanted?” he asks.

I grab the Tootsie Roll and play with it in my trembling palms. The feel of the wax paper is oddly comforting. “I do like them.”

“I’m still judging you for it,” he quips. “Eat, you’ll feel better.”

“I’m starving, but I might throw up.” I shut my eyes and massage my temples.

“I think eating will help. Just try, and when you want me to continue, I will.”

I look up. With his body angled forward, he’s observing me closely. “Can I eat alone… in here, and after we can talk?” I ask. “I need some time to process.”

He nods and stands.

I expect an argument or a refusal, but he leaves me alone, turns out of the room, and goes down the hall. I pull the tray onto my lap, but I end up staring at the food.

My father? My DNA?

I’m not worth more than fifty million; that’s ridiculous!

My stomach knots. I pick up the fork and knife, cutting into the chicken, but my mouth is so dry it’s hard to swallow. I force myself. I’m still a captive; I need my strength. I stab the chicken again and slice off another piece.

Wait! I hold a metal knife in my hand. “He gave me a weapon.”

Fight-or-flight surges through me. I don’t think, I leap up, sending the tray crashing to the floor.

Idiot.

In seconds, Steffen is sprinting through the doorway, taking in the sight of me clutching the knife.

He exhales slowly. “Rylan, don’t.”

I’m already moving, knife raised, charging at him without a plan. He pins me to the wall in a heartbeat, the knife useless in my grip before I can even try to slip past him.

“You want to run?” he asks, his voice husky.