11. 11 – Zella
I slam the drawer closed with a frustrated cry.
There’s nothing here. Nothing that will help me undo the solid iron that connects me to the steel bars of this building, like I’m becoming part of its fabric, piece by piece.
Slumping back against the kitchen cabinet, I stare at the band around my ankle. It feels tight, almost itchy, and I try to dig my finger in, but there’s not enough space to scratch.
Irritating.
I’m trying not to panic. Ethan is clearly angry, but he can’t keep me in chains forever.
Why not? He’s kept you here forever.
Smacking away the terrifyingly negative thoughts invading my head with a slap to my forehead, I debate just going to bed.
Tomorrow is another day. I can keep trying. There must be something here that will help me get into the lock. Or if I can get into the cupboard where Ethan was keeping it, I might even find a spare key.
This feels like a plan. Exhausted, I roll onto my knees, wincing a little at the bruising I received earlier, courtesy of the marble.
The elevator dings, and I flinch, sudden fear flooding my mouth.
He’s back. He told me he wouldn’t be back for a while… but we haven’t exactly been keeping to routine, lately.
Maybe he’s changed his mind, but he was so angry earlier.
Maybe he’s back for something else.
Slowly, I press myself back against the cabinet. It won’t do any good, but I feel better feeling that there’s something hiding me, even if it’s temporary. And if he’s expecting me to be in my usual spot, waiting obediently like a little lapdog, then he doesn’t really know me at all.
I think I’m done following Ethan’s instructions.
I hear the elevator open, footsteps tapping.
Footsteps. Too many footsteps. Heavy ones.
I suck in a breath and hold it.
I don’t think this is Ethan. He’d never bring someone else here.
A new type of fear locks inside my chest.
Straining my ears, I let out a shaky breath and try to keep them even and quiet. I scooch forward an inch, but the sound of a male voice freezes me to the spot.
“I’ll tell you now, Moore has some weird as fuck fetishes.”
There’s another person inside the apartment. Someone who definitely isn’t Ethan.
A second voice sounds, but this one only grunts.
“I mean, look at this shit. If you looked up creepy fucker in the dictionary, his picture would be a full-page spread.”
Another grunt. “He’s an art collector.”
“I feel like they’re going to come to life and suck out my soul.”
“They wouldn’t want your soul.”
“Well, that’s rude.” The voice sounds affronted, and I use the raised voice to slide open the door behind me. I don’t want to risk moving around anymore, so I wrap my fingers around the handle of the first thing I feel.
Glancing down as I lift it out, I bite my lip.
A wok. Very dangerous.
But I still feel better as I close the door gently and lean back against it, the cool wooden handle held firmly in both hands. The footsteps continue winding their way through the room.
They’re going to see me. They’ll see the chain, or my—
Oh, no.
My hair.
Frantically, I look down to where it’s spread out in a long, tangled mess that extends out way past my hiding place behind the cabinet, into the apartment. Slowly, I take one hand off my weapon and drag it towards me, inch by perilous inch.
“Stop.” The second voice cuts off the ranting of the first, and silence cuts through. I drop the hair like my fingers are on fire.
The footsteps get closer, and I huddle in, squeezing my wok for dear life.
Oh god. Oh god. Oh—
Feet appear in front of me, and I glance up… and up.
The man’s face is shadowed, but I see the shape of his lips, the way they part in surprise. “Holy shit.”
He leans down, and I do the first thing I can think of.
I smack him with the wok as hard as I possibly can.
He stumbles back with a shocked shout, and I watch in disbelief as he staggers, before crashing to the ground.
Wow. Hopefully he isn’t dead, but I’m a little impressed by the capacity of the wok. Glancing down, I give it a thankful pat before warm fingers wrap around my arm and lift me as though my weight is nothing, dropping me to my feet.
Struggling, I try to get in a second whack, but the man wraps his hand around my wrist, his grip firm but not painful as he holds my hand to the side.
My breathing feels harsh in the silence, but he makes no sound at all as he presses into me. Staring up, I catch a glimpse of dark eyes. There’s no color to them at all, the irises swallowed in black. But his face…
Beautiful.
No. He’s a burglar. I should not be thinking he’s pretty.
But full lips, a strong, square jawline and elegantly shaped nose… he could easily be one of my statues. Except he’s too alive. I can feel his heartbeat. Swirls of color run out of the neckline of his shirt and over his throat, a perfectly rendered skull.
He has art on his skin.
Full lips tilt into a faintly mocking grin as his full weight presses against me. “Who are you, little prey?”
He’s so warm, even as his eyes are stone cold. A contradiction. My breathing is heavy as I take him in. I’d love to draw him.
A squeak escapes me as a hand curves around my neck and he leans in, his breath warm against my ear. “I asked you a question.”
A little bit of sanity returns as a groan sounds from behind him. The man’s eyes don’t move from mine as his companion stirs, and I let out a small sigh of relief. His eyebrow quirks up in a clear question.
“I didn’t want to kill him,” I mumble, my cheeks flushing.
His fingers tighten around my nape, his thumb stroking the soft hairs gently. “What did you want to do to him?” he asks softly. Leaning in, he presses his nose against my neck, and I lose every piece of air from my lungs as he inhales.
“You broke in,” I choke out. “I was… defending myself.”
“Mmm. And now?” There’s enjoyment in his voice as he runs his nose down the column of my throat. “What would you call this?”
Blinking, I try to move away, but I’m pinned to the counter as he towers over me. For the first time, a hint of true fear sneaks in.
“There it is,” he mutters into my throat. “Delicious.”
I jerk in his hold as he darts out his tongue and licks me.
Is that what people normally do?
“Okay… ew.” I mutter the words to the ceiling, but there’s a choked laugh in front of me, and the first man pops back into view. His eyes widen as he takes me in, his eyes moving to his friend and the way he has me pinned down.
His cheeks crease in a smile.
And woah. If his friend wasn’t devastating enough, this one is enough to have my mouth hanging open. Even the rapidly darkening egg on his forehead doesn’t take away from his looks.
Floppy brown hair curls charmingly over his forehead as he winks at me.
“Well, hello there,” he murmurs. Deep brown eyes rake over me. “Name’s Ryder. What’s your name, princess?”
Frowning, I give his friend a dirty look as he finally pulls his head back, although he keeps me where I am. He watches me unrepentantly, his face expressionless. “Your name, little prey,” he coaxes, when I don’t answer.
I wet my lips. “Doesn’t feel like the kind of thing I should tell people who break into my home.”
The brown-haired man, Ryder, raises his eyebrows. “You live here? In a warehouse?”
My eyes widen at this new information. “This is a warehouse?”
Not an apartment block, then. Both of them frown, exchanging glances. Tattooed guy steps back, keeping my wrist in his hand as he takes me in, his dark eyes moving down and landing on the iron gripping my ankle.
The growl that rolls out of him makes me flinch, and his fingers squeeze my wrist. Reassurance or threat, I don’t know. “Ryder.”
Ryder drops into a crouch, reaching out for my foot. “What’s this, princess?”
“Don’t touch it,” I snap, and aim a kick at him with my unshackled right foot for good measure. He staggers back with his hand against his nose. “Shit!”
Strong hands wrap around my arms again, and I struggle against the tattooed man’s grip. His voice echoes in my ear. “Stop. Moving.”
“Make. Me,” I hiss back, and I swear a low laugh escapes him before I’m turned. My face is pressed into the cold marble of the kitchen counter, my hands held behind my back. A firm leg presses between mine, pushing until I’m up on my tiptoes.
My breath catches in my throat on a strangled gasp.
I… can’t move.
“You were saying?” he taunts, and I close my eyes against the embarrassment.
“Let me go, please.”
“You’re awfully polite,” Ryder mutters from behind me. His voice sounds nasally, like he’s pinching his nose. “For a little savage with a wok and a strong right leg.”
A hand winds into my hair, tugging it just enough to make my back arch. Wincing, I yank away from his touch, my scalp still sore from earlier.
“What’s with all the hair?” the tattooed man murmurs into my ear.
I wriggle uselessly. “None of your business. What do you want?”
Both of them pause.
“Enzo,” Ryder murmurs, and now I have a name for the tattooed psycho who’s having far too much fun positioning me however the heck he wants. “We seem to have an unexpected development.”
“Is it the thing pressing against my leg?” I mutter irritably. “Because it’s definitely developing.”
I had a biology textbook once. I know exactly what that is. It had diagrams and everything.
There’s a moment of silence before a bellow of laughter rings out behind me, followed by a smacking sound.
“Oh,” Ryder says finally, his voice filled with amusement as he catches his breath. “I like you. Can we keep you?”
“Enough,” Enzo snaps before I can respond. “Call Maverick.”
“Um. Yeah, hard pass. He’ll tell us we fucked up, and we did.” Ryder’s face appears next to mine on the counter. “How do you know Ethan Moore, princess?”
I’ve never understood the expression about blood draining from the face, until now. Ryder watches me closely, a knowing glint in his eyes as I lick suddenly dry lips. “Never heard of him.”
A hand wraps around my throat, and I gag as it squeezes lightly. “I don’t like liars, little prey,” Enzo warns behind me.