Does It Hurt? (59)

I don’t know what possesses me—maybe the ghosts in this place—but I reach out and poke his forehead.

He blinks rapidly at me for a moment, turning his stunned gaze to me.

“Are you noticing similarities between the wood on the ceiling and the stick up your ass? I’m sure they have comparable textures.”

“What is wrong with you?” he mutters, turning his glare back to said wood.

I shrug, then flop back down on the mattress, rolling to the side and facing the window. It's still storming, the rain pattering against the glass. “You now have extensive knowledge of that question, I believe.” That reminder positively causes the toxic chemicals in my stomach to churn. “Anyway, whatever it was, it’s gone now, and I have a lot more alcohol to sleep off.”

“Then shut up and go back to bed,” he says stiffly.

I’m too drunk to let his attitude bother me at this very moment. Tomorrow, I’ll be contrite again.

But when I lay back down and close my eyes, sleep doesn’t come for me. I beg and plea with it to take me away to some neverland, even if it’s riddled with fairytale monsters, but it persists in its absence.

“Enzo?” I ask.

He’s quiet for so long I’ve convinced myself he’s fallen asleep. But then he sighs, “What, Sawyer?”

“Did you ever see your mom again?”

Again, with the weighted silence.

“No.”

“Did you ever look for her?” I ask, feeling the thickening tension radiating off him.

“Why are you asking?” he deflects.

I struggle for words, feeling the familiar tide of fear rise up my throat anytime I think of my dearest twin brother. Rolling toward Enzo, I tuck my hands under my head. He's still staring up at the ceiling.

“I guess I just want to know if it’s possible to let someone go that doesn’t want to be found.”

He sighs again and trains his gaze on me.

“I’m capable of deducing, and I get that you do what you do so he can’t find you,” he says slowly, as if offering his understanding and empathy to someone is new, uncharted territory.

“Have you tried—”

“Yes,” I cut him off. “I’ve gone to my parents, and I’ve gone to the authorities when we were sixteen. Kev was always really good at manipulating people. So charming and charismatic, he would give you the shirt off his back without having to ask type. They just said, ‘I know Kevin Bennett. He would never do such a thing.’ But he did.”

I hadn’t realized I started crying until a hot tear was burning a vengeful path across the bridge of my nose and onto the bed sheets. Thankfully, Enzo won’t look at me long enough to notice.

“You went to the authorities, and they still allowed him to be a cop?”

I shrug pitifully. “It’s not like they let me file a report. There was no record of my accusation.”

There’s something insidious mixing with the tension seeping into the air around us. Something dark and violent. It takes a moment to realize that Enzo is angry.

Which isn’t anything out of the ordinary by any means, but this time is different. He’s angry on my behalf.

“Lead him to me,” he says, his voice hushed and deep with malice. The request is similar to his declaration earlier, and even in my drunk-addled mind, I remember him claiming me as his. My heart stops, then restarts, stuttering and tripping over itself in a syncopated rhythm. Butterflies sprout in my stomach, and I decide they’re fucking drunk, too.

“Why would you want to hurt him?”

He faces me and lightly brushes his fingers through my curls, eliciting a shiver that racks through my entire body. The feel of his skin brushing against my temple has my lashes fluttering, a blaze of fire left in his wake. It's anything but a sweet and tender moment, though. Rather, it feels like a predator playing with its food before taking a massive bite out of it.

“He’s forced you to strip people of their identities, so I will do the same to him,” he murmurs darkly. I swallow, the saliva lodging in my throat as his implication settles.

Enzo wouldn’t be stealing the identity of a cop. He’d be snuffing it instead.

And God help me, but the thought impels a deep throb between my legs. I clench my thighs tight in an effort to abate the need, but it’s hopeless when his fingers trail into my hair again, getting lost in the waves as his precious boat did. And for a moment, I wonder if someone a hundred years from now will happen across his vessel, deeming it another tragedy that succumbed to nature's most unforgiving creation.

“Why would you do that for me?” I whisper, suppressing another shudder when his hand tightens, fisting my hair until the strands hold taut. I hiss between my teeth as sharp pinpricks bloom across my scalp.

He lifts up, resting on his forearm as he crowds over me, the heat of his body pressing into my front. I struggle to hold on to a coherent thought while my heart rate elevates dangerously.

His breath fans across the shell of my ear, and I both want to shrink away from him and notch my jaw up toward him, daring him to come closer.

“Because I want to be the only thing that keeps you up at night, bella ladra,” he growls. “And if anyone is going to hurt you, it’s going to be me.”

I shake my head, uncaring of the way it tugs painfully at my hair.