12. 12 – Enzo
Ryder yanks me away from the door, his hand gripping my shoulder as the girl skitters backwards with a startled yelp.
“Will you stop?” he hisses. “She’s going to think we’re serial killers.”
“I am a serial killer,” I point out, and he throws up his hands.
“You know what I mean.”
Not really, but I step away from the door. My feet sound loud in the silence of the vast space, and I decide to do a little digging into our new houseguest.
Ryder is already digging into the cupboards in the kitchen, investigating the contents of the refrigerator with a disgusted sigh.
“Not a bag of chips in sight,” he mutters. “No wonder she’s so small.”
My fingers flex, remembering the frailty of her small wrist under my grip. I could have broken it so easily, just by squeezing.
I pause in front of a statue, taking in the petrified look on its face. Hardly one for a museum. Ryder stands next to me, and he leans in to get a closer look.
“What?” I ask. His face is creased in a frown.
“Nothing… doesn't matter.”
Shaking his head, he turns to me and tips his head in the direction of the bedroom. I can hear little rustling sounds, like a mouse is scurrying around inside.
Little prey.
That’s exactly what she looked like, when I lifted her up and pressed her into the counter. All wide green eyes, plump pink lips and hair .
So much fucking hair. It almost drowns her, the blonde so light it’s nearly white.
“So,” Ry whispers loudly. “On a scale of one to seventeen hundred, how pissed is Maverick going to be?”
I give him a dead stare. “With you? Off the scale.”
He actually pouts at me. “Unfair. What are we supposed to do, leave her here?”
Turning, I take in the wide space. There’s a little nook crammed into the corner, out of place in the sterile environment with its chair and little bookshelf. Something catches my eye, and I cross to the space where the windows should be. The shutters rattle when I tug on them.
Locked.
“Motherfucker,” Ryder curses. “This isn’t a home, it’s a fucking prison.”
I’m inclined to agree. But given how little we know about Moore, and how trusting his little pet seems, my senses are tingling.
I don’t trust her.
I don’t trust anyone. Much easier that way.
“What are the chances?” I ask Ryder quietly. “That we just happen to come across her, and she’s so desperate to leave?”
And that she feels so fucking perfect under my hands?
He rolls his eyes at me. “My god, you see conspiracy everywhere. You wouldn’t want to leave, if he was keeping you here? What exactly is the big evil plan supposed to be?”
Turning, I survey the room again. “I don’t know. But I don’t like it.”
He elbows me as he struts past, throwing himself down into the chair that faces the closed shutters. “Live a little, Enzo. This is the most exciting thing to happen on a case in years.”
Before I can answer, there’s a creak as the door opens. Our little prey emerges, eyes still wide as fuck as she edges into the room.
“Is that a pillowcase?” Ryder asks. She nods.
“I don’t have a bag,” she explains quietly.
My eyes slide to the cotton she’s hugging to her chest. “Looks a little empty,” I note.
She freezes as I walk up to her, grabbing the case to look inside. “What – what are you doing?” she asks, her voice high.
Ignoring her, I stare at the contents. A hairbrush, a replica of the shapeless sack she’s wearing, and a toothbrush.
“Hey!” A small hand jabs into my stomach. “That’s private!”
I frown. “Where’s the rest of it?”
She rolls her eyes, pointing behind me. “In here.”
Taking a step back, she brushes past me and heads to where Ryder is watching, his hands locked behind his head as he lounges in her chair.
She pulls two books from the shelf and slides them into her makeshift bag before pulling open the little drawer in the side table and lifting out a sketchpad and what looks like pencils.
“Okay,” she whispers. Her golden cheeks are flushed with pink when she looks around at us. “I’m ready.”
“Great.” Ryder jumps up, but I’m still caught on the packing situation.
“Clothes?” I point out drily. “Underwear?”
She grimaces. “I only have white dresses. A spare is enough.”
“And the underwear?” Ryder asks curiously. Her face flushes deeper.
“I don’t… I don’t own any.”
An awkward silence descends as I stare at her and she looks anywhere but at me. Her whole face is a bright scarlet.
“Look,” she mutters finally. “I get it. I’m a strange girl with long hair stuck in an apartment and voluntarily choosing to leave with men who I’m pretty sure might actually kill me. It’s weird.”
Bright green eyes lock with mine as she swallows.
“I just want to be free,” she whispers, pushing white-gold strands away from her flushed face. “I want to see what’s outside these walls. I need to feel the wind on my face. I don’t feel… like I’m human, here. It’s like I’m a thing. A possession.”
Ryder’s face softens, but my body locks up at her words.
It’s not that I don’t know what she means. It’s that I know exactly what she means.
And that’s the fucking problem.
She’s too perfect. Too trusting. Too soft.
Too… much.
Sliding my hand into my pocket, my fingers brush the syringe. I always carry a fresh one. You never know when you might need it.
“Let’s take that chain off,” I mutter, turning away from the innocent fucking hope in her expression before it makes me lose what little control I have left.
She inhales sharply as I crouch down at her feet, my eyes on the thick metal band with the padlock wrapped around her ankle. Her hair falls like a curtain around us, and her ankle twitches beneath my grasp as I grip the smooth skin and pull the knife from my pocket.
“You carry a knife in your pocket?” she asks, and I chance another glance up at her.
“You never know when you might need it.” I push the sharp edge into the lock, wriggling it.
It’s an older lock, one she wouldn’t have a clue how to break but one I could snap in my sleep, and it takes a few seconds at most before it clicks.
Moore isn’t the criminal mastermind he thinks he is.
Pulling off the padlock, I push the metal open, and it clatters to the floor.
Her foot circles in my grasp as she rotates it, the relief clear in her sigh. “Thank you.”
“I wouldn’t thank me just yet.” Getting to my feet, I don’t give an inch, our bodies pressing together as she looks up at me with wide, uncertain eyes.
“Why not?”
Her lips part as my hand circles her neck and I lean in.
“Because we’re not the good guys, little prey.”
She gasps, her neck pushing against my grip as I push the edge of the syringe in, depressing it and watching those vibrant green hues dull as her body slumps against me.
Ryder shouts in surprise as I catch her. “For fuck- Enzo !”
Turning, I shrug off his outrage. “It’s better this way. Safer.”
He growls, shoving his finger into my face. “We should’ve talked about this.”
“Please.” I scoff. “You’re already gaga for her.”
He might not see it, but I do.
There’s no softness in Ryder’s expression when he looks at women. Heat? Lust? Wanton promise? That, he’s a pro at. He was taught well, and he uses his charm as a weapon.
But that’s not how he looked at her .
No, he looked at her like he might find redemption in her pretty green eyes.
Zella. The word rolls itself around my tongue. It doesn’t fit properly.
Ryder presses his fingers against her neck, feeling for a pulse.
“Fuck off,” I mutter, turning towards the door. “I haven’t killed her.”
Yet.
But I won’t hesitate if she turns out to be a liar.
I don’t like liars.
He picks up her sad little bag and follows, holding up the scanner to the keypad with irritated, jerking movements. “You’re insane.”
I don’t respond. Some things don’t need confirmation.
The doors slide open, and Ryder carries on, ranting about Maverick’s going to kill us and chivalry is dead and what kind of weirdo carries sedatives in their pocket and all of the shit that I don’t give a flying fuck about as we head down to the car.
Luckily I emptied the trunk after my little trip with Ed Sanderson.
As I stare down at the unconscious girl in my arms, I don’t feel a shred of regret, even as my arms hold her firmly against my chest.
She could be a weakness.
But I don’t fold to my weaknesses.
I annihilate them.