Page 15 of Kept

He walks into the small space, turning to face me. His eyes slide away, and I can see that I’ve hurt him.

“Wait,” I say suddenly. “Don’t go like this.”

Ethan’s hand catches the doors, holding them open as his eyes move back to mine. “Sleep, Zella,” he says, more gently this time. “I think we’re both a little tired. And when you wake up tomorrow, you’ll understand.”

Frowning, I watch the doors slide closed.

Understand what?

Taking Ethan’s order for what it means, I curl up in bed, uncaring of the early hour.

What would be the point of staying up anyway?

What’s the point of being alive, if I’m not truly living?

And Ethan may not like it, but I know he’ll come around. He can’t force me to stay here, after all.

Maybe he’s right. Tomorrow is a new day.

6 – Enzo

Ed Sanderson is perfect.

I watch him through hooded eyes from my perch on the fire escape. The alleyway is dark, broken only by the odd amber patch of streetlight. One of them is shining directly over his face.

I watch as it twists and contorts, almost demonic in its action as he pins his trembling victim to the wall by her throat, leaning in and snarling something in her face that makes her blanch. Her twisting movements double in effort, nails scrabbling for purchase in the skin of his wrist.

She can see death, this girl. I can tell by her eyes, by the frantic sounds coming from deep inside her chest, torn directly from that reservoir of strength you find when your oxygen is running out and your limbs begin to numb and you can feel the grim reaper hovering over you, ready and waiting.

It’s a delicious sound, from the right throat.

But as my feet land soundlessly on the concrete and I stroll towards them, Abby Millers locks her gaze with mine. Her eyes widen even as her skin flushes with red from the vessels popping.

Sanderson is too far gone to notice if a truck came barrelling down the alley, too lost in bloodlust, a cocktail of drugs and the possibility of violence to notice me until I’m literally pressing against his back, my breath heated on his neck.

He freezes, his hand releasing the girl as he tries to turn, but my hand is already curled around his throat, the faintest line of the blade in my other hand drawing a sharp scarlet edge of blood from his skin.

Sanderson jerks, a curse flying from his mouth. “The fuck—,”

“Ed Sanderson,” I whisper into his ear. It’s almost a caress, if you remove the danger. But the threat is there, enough for Sanderson to start shaking against me as I lock eyes with Abby Millers.

“Go home, Abigail. Your father is waiting for you.”

The burn on her collarbone stands out against the frailty of her body as she pushes herself against the wall, sliding out from our little gathering with rasping breaths.

I’m a little impressed when she turns to face me instead of running. “Will you kill him?”

“Look, man—,”

I cut Ed off with a little nudge of the knife against his trachea. “That depends,” I tell her casually. “You think he deserves it?”

Her hands are on her throat, her fingers fitting into the bruising left behind by his hands as she stares at him. I wait. A serious question deserves serious consideration.

“Yes,” she whispers finally. “He’s done it to others.”

There’s something in her voice that tastes like shame, and I pull our boy a little closer to me, scenting the fear permeating his skin as he gasps. A fish in the shallows. He’s completely out of his depth, and he knows it.

“Have you now, Eddy?” I murmur.

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