Page 31 of Kept

I don’t like liars.

He picks up her sad little bag and follows, holding up the scanner to the keypad with irritated, jerking movements. “You’re insane.”

I don’t respond. Some things don’t need confirmation.

The doors slide open, and Ryder carries on, ranting aboutMaverick’s going to kill usandchivalry is deadandwhat kind of weirdo carries sedatives in their pocketand all of the shit that I don’t give a flying fuck about as we head down to the car. Luckily I emptied the trunk after my little trip with Ed Sanderson.

As I stare down at the unconscious girl in my arms, I don’t feel a shred of regret, even as my arms hold her firmly against my chest.

She could be a weakness.

But I don’t fold to my weaknesses.

I annihilate them.

13 – Maverick

“Where the fuck have you been?”

My bellowed words make Ryder jump as he tries to sneak past the open door, but I’m past caring.

“You’ve been fucking hours,” I snap. “No contact. Radio fucking silence. So where thefuckhave you been?”

There’s no sign of Enzo, and it tells me all I need to know. “Did you bring Moore back with you?”

I swear to God, if he’s downstairs in the dungeon—

“No!” Ryder slides his hand to the back of his neck, squeezing. He looks… sheepish.

Ryder doesn’t do sheepish. Petulant, yes. Dramatic, absolutely.

Butsheepish?

I cross my arms, waiting for an explanation and fucking hating the way he shifts on his feet. I’m not his fucking father – I’m nowhere near old enough. But damn if it doesn’t feel that way sometimes. Between Ryder and Enzo, it’s no wonder my hair is greying at the ripe old age of fucking thirty.

But damn it to hell, someone has to keep order in this house. And as much as I hate that it has to be me, I hate the idea of them both spiraling even more.

I tip my chin at him. “Talk. Now.”

He starts to sidle towards the lounge, and I stalk after him. “A conversation like this is probably best with wine.”

“You hate wine,” I snap.

He shrugs helplessly. “Maybe I’ve developed a taste for it?”

Crossing to the bar, he pours a large glass and holds it out to me. Blinking, I stare at it. It’s nearly overflowing.

They’ve definitely killed someone they shouldn’t have.

“Just tell me,” I grit, snatching the glass and throwing back a large gulp, sucking down at least two hundred dollars’ worth of vintage merlot in one fortifying swallow. “Who’s dead?”

Ryder laughs nervously. “Er – no one.”

Raising my eyebrows at him, I wait. He squirms, not sitting down. Just standing there looking awkward as hell. “Where is Enzo?”

His shoulders slump. “Downstairs?”

I take another sip, not much smaller than the first, with the strong feeling that I’m going to need it. “Ryder. Just spit it out.”

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