Page 70 of Kept

The idea of Zella anywhere near this man makes me want to do things that would make Enzo look like a choir boy.

When I don’t respond, he pokes my arm with his gloves. “’M talkin’ to you.”

Slowly, I slide my arm away, glancing over. “I wasn’t aware you had asked a question.”

I take a little enjoyment in the way his face reddens, but it rapidly drains away at the reminder that this is what Zella saw when he wrapped that fucking chain around her ankle.

“I need help,” he slurs. “I’ve lost something.”

My whole body tightens, and I force it to relax. “Oh?”

I pitch my tone at just the right mix of inviting and disinterested, and he falls for it. Hook, line, fucking sinker.

Spinning and nearly toppling off, he rights himself before he looks around. I try to hold my breath when he leans in.

“I’ve lost something, and I need it back,” he mutters feverishly. “I can’t… I can’t work without it.”

I can’t look at him. Instead, I lift my glass and take a healthy sip. “I can’t help if I don’t know what it is.”

I want to see how he’ll describe her, if he’ll just front right up and announce that he’s been keeping a girl prisoner in a city warehouse for more than two fucking decades. But he hasn’t held her for that long by blabbing to every man on a barstool. He shakes his head. “I’d need a contract first. Non-disclosure.”

Weighing up the possible advantages of signing some meaningless piece of paper to get more information out of him, I decide against it. Even the thought of pretending to work with him makes me feel sick to my stomach.

Getting up, I offer him an easy smile. “Sorry, man. We’re fully booked at the moment. If anything comes up, I’ll let you know through the club. What’s your name?”

He narrows his eyes somewhere in my general vicinity. “Ethan Moore.”

“Great.” Draining my glass, I push it back over to the bartender and sign the slip he holds out to bill our tab. “Perhaps we’ll meet again.”

I can feel eyes on me as I walk out – Moore or Martinez – but I don’t stop, starting the bike up and pulling out of the lot. The tension in my body doesn’t relax until I catch sight of our gates.

Instead of heading to the home theater, I go straight upstairs and get in the shower. It feels like a thin layer of oil is covering my skin after the interactions I’ve had this evening.

By the time I’m finished and head back down in a pair of gray sweatpants, it’s late. I’m not expecting anyone to be up, so I jolt when I walk into Maverick in the hall.

“Everything okay?” he asks quietly, and I nod.

“Everyone else in bed?”

He tips his head towards the kitchen door.

“She wanted to wait for you,” he says in a low voice. “Was worried about you being out so late.”

I stare in the direction of the kitchen. “Oh.”

“Yeah.” He claps me on the shoulder. “I’m glad you’re home. Make sure she gets to bed.”

With a final look over his shoulder, he heads upstairs. Staying where I am, I stare uselessly at the kitchen door.

She waited up for me.

When I push the door open, Zella is cradling a coffee in her hands as she stares out of the double windows into the dark night. She glances absent-mindedly over her shoulder, a soft smile on her lips, but it grows when she spots me.

“You’re back,” she says quietly. “I… I wanted to make sure before I went to bed.”

Swallowing, I force a nod. Her eyes slide down, taking in my bare chest with a flicker of heat in her eyes. Fighting back the irrational urge to cross my arms over my chest like I’m shy – because come on, I’m a fucking whore – I cross the room and pour my own cup of coffee, moving up beside her with a gap between us. Zella stands quietly, but I can feel her eyes on me as I move around the room.

When I settle next to her, she blows out a breath, but stays silent, her eyes on the darkness outside. Guilt twists in my stomach. I promised I’d take her back outside today, and I didn’t.

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