Page 54 of Kept

She follows me. “So… what are we doing?”

The battered leather chair creaks as I swivel around, villain-style.

Maybe I should get a cat.

Although blood would be hard to clean from the fur. Maybe not.

Irrationally disappointed in my non-existent cat, I snap at her. “You’re going to sit here and say nothing. I need to work.”

Her eyes follow my pointing finger. “You want me to sit on the floor?”

“Did I stutter?” I ask coolly. “Feel free to go back upstairs if not.”

I’m expecting her to kick off, maybe to storm out, but she surprises me when I see her settling down on her knees out of the corner of my eye. The floor is solid concrete and her legs are bare under that ridiculous white dress, but she doesn’t murmur as she sets her hands in her lap.

I ignore the way my cock hardens at the sight of her.

She wants to sit there instead of going back upstairs? Fine.

I spend the next hour working through camera footage of the city. John Millers is a typical blue-collar male. He goes to work in his car garage at the same time every day, returning home by six sharp every evening. Man likes routine. I can appreciate that.

Shame he’s a perverted son of a bitch. Abby Millers isn’t the only girl he’s hurt.

It doesn’t take me long to realize that this might be the easiest run I’ve ever done, and my jaw locks in disappointment. I was hoping for more of a chase than this podgy fucker’s going to give me.

But the look in Abby Millers’ eyes tells me he’s earned his spot on my table, so a quick one will have to do.

I calculate a rough plan in my head and lean back, stretching my arms up and pulling out a knot in my back. The space around me is silent, and my eyes move to the girl.

She’s in exactly the same position she was an hour ago, her breathing too quiet for me to pick up and her eyes closed. There’s no sign of the fire I saw before, no trace of the quiet strength she showed with my hands around her neck.

No sign of life whatsoever.

It annoys the fuck out of me.

“Why are you so quiet?” I demand. My voice echoes off the walls, and she jumps. Her eyes slide open, the bright green turning to me in question.

“I thought you wanted me to be quiet?”

Surveying her, I tap my fingers on the chair. “Nobody is that quiet.”

It’s true. It’s almost impossible for someone to be truly silent for that length of time. People shift, stretch, cough, sneeze, pick their fucking nose, scratch their ass.

She’s silent. Those golden cheeks develop a hint of color as we watch each other. Finally, she swallows, pushing back a stray piece of hair from her face.

“I’m used to it,” she murmurs. “Ethan used to make me sit for hours, and I had to be still.”

Her breath hitches when she says that fucker’s name, and my fingers tap harder.

I think Ethan Moore will be on my table soon.

“I don’t like it,” I grunt. “Say something.”

A hint of challenge enters her eyes. “What do you want me to say?”

Is she baiting me intentionally? Her head tilts to the side, all fucking innocence, but I’m not buying it.

She’s fucking perfect. Nobody is this perfect.

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