Page 6 of Keeper

And the tingling when it wears off? I think I’d rather get struck by lightning.

“You must be good at this,” I comment as sarcastically as I can. “Timed it to wear off in the driveway.”

“Oh, did I?” He smirks. “Maybe that’s why they sent me.”

Maybe it is. Or maybe they sent him because psychological warfare is fun for them, who knows. But as I get out of the car and try to find my footing again, I realize it doesn’t matter why they sent him or who he is or what Jake did to deserve this. None of the reasons change the outcome. The end is unjustified by the means.

All that matters is what happens next.

“No red carpet this time. I’m a little disappointed,” I quip, turning slightly to see him when I don’t hear a response.

He’s not there.

The driver’s side door is open, the car is still running, but Draven — bastard, baby, murderer — is nowhere to be found.

Probably doesn’t want to deal with Ephraim Creed after a long night of blow jobs and neck snapping.

Huffing, I shut the car off, lightly close the door, and make my way up the dozen wooden steps to the front porch.

The last time I set foot in this mansion, I was gifted to a hacker who turned out to be a ticking time bomb.

This time, I’m being gifted to the heir of Provost Ephraim Creed himself. If he keeps his son as close to him as his secrets, then I may never leave this mansion again.

I could run. I could. Maybe that’s why he vanished and left the keys in the car, left it running. Maybe he was giving me an out. But I’m a pawn, and pawns don’t run. They can’t. They’re incapable of free thinking, of defensive maneuvers. All they can do is move forward, two squares and then one, hoping they won’t be knocked off the board by a bishop, a rook, or an angry, relentless Queen.

Like a good little pawn, I move forward, space by space, step by step until I’m standing in front of the oversized iron double doors... and I knock.

Three

The door opens beforeI can even pull my fist away. It sends a jolt through me, one I work hard not to show on my face, but I’m not perfect. No one is. And knowing they were standing there watching me, waiting? It’s fucking creepy.

“Wasn’t sure you were gonna knock, girl. Come inside, it’s colder than hell out there.” An older woman, possibly mid-fifties, early sixties with dyed-dark hair and darker eyes steps aside to usher me in. I vaguely remember her from last time, but I’m awful with names. When it comes to secrets, I have near perfect recall, even for names — but for people I meet? I swear my brain switches off. Names don’t matter. Actions matter, intentions matter. Names don’t.

I step inside onto the marble floor and allow a woman younger than me to take my coat. “I was told the Provost had a new job for me. Of course I was going to knock.”

“As sharp as they promised,” she mutters with a soft smile. “How old are you, dear?”

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