Page 89 of Kept

But not this time. No, this time I still feel on edge. The itch underneath my skin, the prickling electrifying my nerve endings is still very much there, poking and prodding at me.

It isn’tsatisfied.

I set upon the rest of the room with grim determination, scrubbing away the last traces of Millers until the room gleams once again, the floors hosed down, the last traces of evil trickling into the drains at the edge of the slightly sloping floor.

But the itching is still there.

With a frustrated roar, I throw the steel brush into the sink, knocking off bottles as they clatter into the metal opening.

“Enzo?”

Breath heaving, I spin around. I didn’t hear her footsteps on the stairs, and I don’t know whether it’s because my head is spinning or because my little prey is learning to temper her footsteps, to tread quietly when the monsters are in sight.

And it all pisses me the hell off.

“I told you to run,” I snarl at her, and she takes a step forward. She’s not wearing that fucking hideous sack of a white dress anymore, the shapeless material replaced with dark jeans that hug the fucking curves of her legs like hands gripping her skin. The dark green sweatshirt clings to her, and the sneakers on her feet tell me why I didn’t pick up on her steps.

I’ve become used to her tread.

I’m caught up in staring at her, so much that I flinch back when I focus and she’s closer to me. Her green eyes are dark, her pouty little mouth set in a frown as she crosses her arms.

“No,” she says shortly.

Trying to regain some fucking sense of equilibrium, I step back, putting the table between us.

“I told you.” My voice rises, ringing off the walls between us, “To fucking run, little prey.”

Is she so fucking willing to be an active participant in her own demise?

Does she not fucking understand?

She slams her hands down on the clean metal, the slap ringing out. Her breathing is just as harsh as mine, as though she’s run back to this fucking room instead of as far away as she can possibly get.

My head swivels, looking for Maverick or Ryder, waiting for them to come storming in, but she snaps her fingers in my damn face.

“Look at me.”

My head turns slowly back to her. Her fucking hair is trailing everywhere, like she’s been running her hands through it. Or more likely, Ryder has. He can’t keep his fucking hands off it when she’s around.

“You told me to decide if this is something I can live with, Enzo.” Her words are soft, just like the rest of her.

Too fucking soft.

I choke down the burning ball of pain in my throat. “And?”

“You told me I had a choice.” She spreads her arms out wide, her face full of challenge.

“I’ve made my choice,” she whispers. “I choose this.”

I bark a half-strangled laugh. “No, you don’t.”

Her head snaps back, and her eyes are full of green fire when she stares at me challengingly. “Don’t tell me I have a choice and then try to take it away. I have chosen, Enzo. And I choose this.”

She moves around the table, and I stay exactly where I am. I don’t even breathe as she moves closer, as her hands lift and cup my cheeks as if I’m something breakable.

Something fuckingprecious.

“You act like the villain,” she murmurs. “And maybe you are. But you’re not evil, Enzo.”

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