Page 17 of Keep Me

His eyes darken, and his chest rises with a deep breath, but he doesn’t say a word.

“Buenas noches, perro,” I call over my shoulder as I walk away. “Don’t forget to clean up.”

He remains silent. I don’t know what I expected him to say. I certainly didn’t expect an apology, but nothing still feels like he’s spit in my face. I feel nearly as powerless as I did when he had my face down on the counter.

I hear his chair scrape against the floor and his feet hurry after me. He quickly catches me, wrapping a hand around my wrist and whipping me around. “That’s not what I was doing.”

I scoff. “Could have fooled me.” I tug my arm away unsuccessfully and snap my eyes to his with all my vitriol. His hand sears my skin. I don’t want him touching me. Not ever again. “Let. Me. Go.”

“I’m a bad man, but I’m not the worst.” I open my mouth to counter, but he talks right over me. “In order to protect you from the worst, I have to think like them, and you have to realize this isn’t a game.”

I grind my teeth together, fuming. “You done?”

“Yeah.” He drops my hand with a subtle, disapproving shake of his head that makes me feel so fucking small. I watch him walk away, running a hand over his short hair, and glare daggers at his back, hoping he trips over his own feet and cracks his skull open.

1. STUPID (Feat. Yung Baby Tate)—Ashnikko, Baby Tate. Play until end of chapter

Chapter 10

Sugar or Cyanide

Roan

It takes me forever to fall asleep on the couch, partly because I hold out as long as I can. Because if I sleep, I dream. And if I dream, I wake up yelling and punching shit. I don’t need Reggie to like me, but I need her to at least tolerate me enough so that she doesn’t try to poison me. Waking someone up with a fist to the face doesn’t tend to build bridges.

Fuck, Lochlan would be good at this shit—as long as he didn’t end up sleeping with her. He’s protective by nature and can actually make her smile, and probably a hell of a lot less murderous. But I’d rather saw off my dick than admit to Cash that I can’t do the job. Protesting when he assigned it is one thing, but backing out now would be a failure, even if Lochlan is better suited.

And I’m so sick of failing.

I know they all blame me for what happened to her. They may not say it now, but at one point they did. Those are words that can’t be taken back, no matter how much my brothers have matured or grown. I’ll never forget the permanent truth in Cash’s eyes when he told me it was my fault that Mom was dead. I wasn’t brave enough, strong enough, man enough.

He’ll tell me now that I was just a kid, it’s not my fault. But I know, I know, that deep down he still blames me. I could see the belief carved into his psyche through his eyes. Once you believe something so wholeheartedly, you can’t ever fully let it go.

Time doesn’t heal shit.

It only gives wounds more time to fester.

When I finally lose my battle to sleep and doze off, it feels like I am woken minutes later by the sound of a door opening. Instinct has me reaching for my gun wedged in the couch cushions and drawing it at the same time as I open my eyes. Immediately noticing that the front door is closed, I spin my gaze and aim down the hallway where Reggie is exiting her room. I quickly stuff the gun back in its place while she rubs the sleep from her eyes.

For a second, I am taken aback by the complete casualness of her. She’s wearing a pair of plaid boxers folded over at the waist. With her hands raised, her ratty old t-shirt slides up, revealing a patch of golden skin. Her hair is barely contained in a bun, loose and spilling out. She looks…soft, like well-worn jeans.

Then she goes and opens her fucking mouth.

“God, I was really hoping I imagined this new living situation.” She barely affords me a glance as she strolls into the kitchen with a yawn. Maybe she’s being too casual…? I eye her suspiciously, half expecting her to pull a bazooka from the cupboard instead of coffee.

I sit up on the couch and lean forward on my elbows, watching, waiting. She notices and lifts her brows. “Qué quieres?”

I roll my head to the side and stare at her. She sticks her head out in a repeat of her question. So much sass. But I catch her picking at her nails, her hands hanging down by her sides. She enjoys the back and forth, the bark and the bite. But silence? This makes her uncomfortable.

I stash that little sliver of information in the back of my mind and stand. “Are you going to offer me any coffee?”

She pauses, about to fill the coffee pot by the sink. “Are you going to keep your hands off me?”

I huff a dry laugh and walk over to her. She goes back to filling the pot. There are hints of tension in her shoulders and neck when she turns her back to me. I lean against the island and watch her work, my eyes tracing every inch of her bare skin, letting the silence simmer a little longer.

The machine beeps as she turns it on and faces me, mimicking my position against the counter. “Why don’t you trust me?”

“Because my father hired you,” she replies immediately and matter-of-factly.

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