Page 119 of Kept

Ryder squeezes my hand, and I turn to him, suddenly petrified.

What if he’s disappointed?

Ryder sees my agitation, and his face softens as he cups my cheek, reading the question on my face.

“Be proud of who you are, little thief,” he murmurs. “I would be proud to have a daughter just like you.”

My mind goes blank at that little bombshell, and he presses a kiss to my cheek with a small grin before he turns us to face the man who’s stopped in the middle of the hallway.

Emerson Cooper twists a hat in his hands, his eyes locked on my face. His face is wreathed in exhaustion, more so than the last time I saw him. Deep purple circles sit beneath his blue eyes, the lines on his weathered face deep. His mouth parts as I step forward.

We watch each other in silence. I wonder if he’s looking for familiarity in my face, searching for the memories of the daughter he lost in the shape of my face, my nose, my cheekbones.

I shift on my feet, uncertain how to approach this. “Um. Hello.”

He swallows, the sound audible in the quiet of the hallway. “Hello, Zella.”

His voice cracks on my name, and he presses a hand over his mouth as I take a step forward, my hand automatically raising. “I’m – I’m sorry—,”

A tear slides from his eye, and then another, and he buries his face in his hands. “Damn it,” he whispers shakily. “I promised myself I wouldn’t do this.”

The grumbled words remind me so much of myself that it brings a smile to my lips. Carefully, I reach out and take his hands, tugging them away from his face.

“I don’t think there’s a right or wrong way to do this,” I tell him ruefully. “So… maybe we could start with coffee?”

He gives me a relieved smile. “I like coffee. Probably too much.”

“Me too.”

The guys follow us as I lead Emerson down to the kitchen, and he takes a seat at the table as I start to brew the fresh coffee. I sneak little glances at him, our eyes connecting before we both look away.

The third time, we both laugh. “This is a little awkward,” I admit truthfully, taking cups from the cupboard. “I don’t know how I’m supposed to act.”

“That makes two of us.” Emerson nods in thanks as I put a steaming cup in front of him, his fingers curling around it. “I never thought…I never thought something like this would happen. Now that it has, it doesn’t seem real.”

I take a seat silently next to him, and Maverick looks between us. “We’ll give you some privacy,” he says softly. Enzo’s mouth tightens, and Ryder opens his mouth as if he’s going to protest, but they both follow him out of the kitchen, leaving us in silence.

“Will you… tell me about yourself?” he asks quietly. “I’d like to know more about your life.”

Ah.

“How much has Maverick told you?”

Emerson shakes his head. “Only the bare bones of what happened. I’ll admit that when I found out you were alive… the details didn’t matter so much. Now, though… I would very much like to know what happened, Zella, if you’re comfortable talking about it.”

He swallows, hard. I glance down to where his fingers are gripping his cup tightly, neatly trimmed nails still bearing the traces of paint.

And I start to talk.

I tell him about my childhood, in the apartment. How I grew up surrounded by statues. How much I loved to draw, and how much I loved to watch the sunrise every morning. I try to skirt around Ethan as best I can, but eventually, his name comes up.

“Ethan.” Emerson’s eyes close. “I never thought… but it makes sense.”

“Did you know him?” I whisper, and he nods.

“Very well. The art community is a close one, and Ethan and I have crossed paths many times over the years. If I’d only known then.” His face creases in anger. “I never suspected him, but in hindsight, perhaps I should have.”

“Why?”

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