Page 39 of Kept

When I turn to look at Ryder, there’s a dull flush of deepening red spreading along his cheekbone. “How’d you know?”

“I wouldn’t say I’m certain, not without examining it more closely. But that looks like original canvas, and I can see the texture.”

Craning my head, I look up and down the hall. More familiar art jumps out at me, and my eyebrows fly up.

Ethan would love this.

My throat dries up. I wonder if he knows I’m gone, yet.

What he’ll do.

Pushing the thoughts away, I turn back to Ryder. “Quite the collection.”

He throws out a hand carelessly. “I enjoy acquiring art. It’s a process.”

I know, probably more than he realizes. Ethan would be away for weeks sometimes to work on building his collection. I never even saw most of it, a lot stored in the gallery he always told me about. But he always talked about theprocess.

Ryder nudges me, offering his arm. “Come on, princess. Maverick hates lateness. He’s a bit of a stickler for the rules.”

Taking his arm, we make our way down a beautiful double staircase and into a large, open room with a long dinner table. Candles flicker, the light coming from the large windows throwing golden light across the white tablecloth. I crane my head, taking in the new angle of the trees outside.

Maverick is seated at the end of the table. He stands when we enter, moving to a chair next to him.

“Zella. Why don’t you sit here.”

It’s not a question. His voice is so deep I can feel it, a faint vibration inside my chest. Swallowing, I step away from Ryder and walk around, sliding in with a whispered thanks as Maverick pushes the chair in until I’m tucked under the table.

He sits back down, completely focused on me. I look down.

There’s something about Maverick that ties my tongue into knots.

“Well, this is very formal,” Ryder drawls. He throws himself into a chair opposite me, on Maverick’s other side, and reaches for a glass. “You drink wine, princess?”

“Um. Sure.”

I have never, in fact, drank wine. Or any alcohol. But I don’t tell Ryder that as he pours me a large glass and passes it to me. I can feel Maverick’s eyes on the side of my face as I take a sip.

“Good?” he asks in a low tone. When I turn to him, his blue eyes are completely focused on my face. Heat suffuses my cheeks.

“Lovely,” I murmur. The rich taste takes a little getting used to, so I take another small sip and place it down. “Will Enzo be joining us?”

Ryder laughs. “I very much doubt it.”

But the door bangs on the edge of his words, and Enzo stalks in. His tattoos are hidden beneath another black shirt as he pulls open the chair at the furthest end of the table, dropping into it and glaring at us like we’ve personally dragged him in and tied him up.

The lump in my throat intensifies when he stares at me, his brows drawing down.

He doesn’t say anything.

The silence stretches out for a few minutes, until two black-clad people enter, setting down trays on the table. My eyes round at all the food, and I nearly bounce in my seat.

I’m so hungry.

“Thank you,” I say with a smile to one of them, and he slides wide eyes to me before his head dips in a nod. When he lingers, a deep voice rumbles from the end of the table.

“Remove your eyes from her, before I do it for you.”

It takes a second for the words to register in my head. The man pales, backing away with a fumbling apology and disappearing out of the door as I frown down towards Enzo. All he does is stare back at me, his face expressionless.

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