Page 61 of Kept

I throw more water on my face, trying to dampen the fire I can feel on my cheeks. The way he moved over me, tasting me,shavingme.

When I first started reading the few books Ethan would bring me, I always imagined how it would feel to be introduced to a man, like Elizabeth Bennet and Mr. Darcy, or Heathcliff and Cathy. As I grew older and learned more about my own body, I would trace my hands across my skin in bed, trying to imagine someone else’s hands in their place.

The reality is beyond my own imagination.

I never expected this. I never expectedthem.

My face is still scarlet when I turn away from the glass. Collecting my sketchbook from the side, I make my way downstairs, searching for a space I can use to clear my head. Sketching always helps when my head feels too full. Like the chaos inside finds its way out onto the page.

My fingers pluck at the edges of Ryder’s shirt as I peer cautiously around one of the many doors in the house. Some rooms are completely empty. Others have furniture inside, white covers thrown over them in a way that reminds me of the apartment, making me back out quickly and close the door.

Finally, I find a little room with a dark blue couch and settle down, opening my book. I’ve always had to search for inspiration, but today my pencil begins to fly almost as soon as it touches the page.

Chaotic strokes shape into a familiar face. Enzo’s face appears, looking straight at me, his eyes burning with dozens of stars. I try to draw the skull covering his neck, but my fingers falter. I need to spend more time studying it.

For the first time, I don’t wish for more color. Enzo’s likeness stands out on the page, bold in shades of black and white, so similar to the real him that it makes my breath catch.

Flipping the page, I move on to Ryder. His curls flop over his forehead as he smiles, full lips coming to life under my hand. He’s standing next to a window, his hand curled towards me as if in invitation. And then there’s Maverick. His eyes pierce the page as he lifts a glass, his brow quirked in silent demand.

My fingers trace over the three sketches.

Three men.

Enzo told me I would be theirs.

Ryder told me I wouldn’t be.

I wonder if anyone plans to ask me what I want.

The quiet knock on the open door makes me jerk, my sketchbook sliding to the floor. Maverick leans down to pick it up, his eyes glancing down as he hands it back to me. “You have a gift for art.”

The words draw a smile to my face. “Really?”

“You didn’t know?” He settles down on the couch next to me. Maverick is impossibly large, his shoulders taking up most of the empty space as I slide closer to him. He lays his arm along the back of the blue leather, fingers brushing my shoulder. “I mean it. That sketch is amazing.”

I glance down at the picture of Enzo. “Thank you. It would be better with some color, I think. I used to ask Ethan for paints all the time, but he always forgot to bring them.”

Maverick’s lips are pressed together, a frown in his eyes when I look at him.

“Zella… Ethan is back in the city.”

My whole body goes numb.

He’s back.

The buzzing in my head grows to a roar, and my breathing stutters and dies. Maverick’s face appears in front of me. He’s on his knees, talking, his face urgent, but I can’t hear him.

I’m barely aware as I’m lifted and settled against something warm.

“He’s coming for me,” I whisper. Soon, I’ll be back in that cold place. Prison or home, it won’t make a difference when those doors close behind me. Sound finally penetrates as Maverick swears.

“No, sweetheart,” he says firmly. His hands are roaming up and down my back, smooth, firm strokes that help reduce the noise inside my head. “He’s not coming. He doesn’t know where you are.”

Images of the elevator opening, Ethan stepping inside.

To face an empty space.

“He’s going to be so angry with me.” I twist my head to face Maverick. His body is curled around mine protectively, those wide shoulders a reassurance that I cling on to as he keeps rubbing my back.

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