Page 50 of Kill for a Kiss

I hand her a bottle of water from the fridge. “Avoid the black cans.”

“Why?”

“High stim. Underground blend. Not safe for most.”

“Most,” she repeats. “But you?”

“I don’t sleep much.”

She frowns a bit, her brows furrowing with it. She looks at me like she cares, like she’s worried. My chest constricts. My pulse races.Fuck, I should leave. Give her space. Let her settle. But I don’t. I only let her hand go. Because she’s giving me that look like she wants to ask abouthim. So I say what she wants to hear to make her stay.

“We’ll find Stanley soon.” The words come out smooth, convincing.

She believes me. I watch the hope replace the worry etched on her beautiful face. One that was never meant for any pain. And itkillsme, because I’m going to hurt her, when she realizes one day that I was never going to help her find him. So I’m going to make sure sheforgetshe ever existed.

I should let her get settled. Give her space. Walk away before I make this worse. But I can’t yet. She’s looking at me, with her fingers wrapped too tightly around her silk scarf, still fidgeting with it like she’s still waiting for something. So I give it to her. “Sleep, Elle.”

She nods, heading down the hallway. But soon, I want her towake up. I want her to claw her way back, piece by piece, until she remembers who she is—not the version Clo dressed up and drugged.

Even if it means, when that moment comes, when she finally sees the truth, she might look at me like I’m the villain in her story. The monster in her memory. But I’d still rather be the monster who pulled her out than the man who left her behind again.

***

In the morning, I wait for her to wake. I linger in the kitchen, listening to her walk around, and then hear the rush of running water. The shuffle of her movements, the creak of the floorboards beneath her feet. They’re the most ordinary sounds, yet they gut me.

Elle makes me forget how to breathe. I drag a hand down my face, needing to stay in motion to focus, so I yank the fridge open. I grab eggs and butter from the top shelf. Then bread from the counter.

I move automatically, turning the burner on. The butter melts with a hiss. I crack open the eggs, letting them sizzle in the pan.

She should be resting, wrapped in real safety. But she’s in withdrawal. She just doesn’t know it yet. From the files I read and from what I’ve seen, I know Kys is a quiet poison. Sweet on the way in, stings on the way out. Elle’s body’s already probably starting to notice its absence.

Withdrawal’s easier if she doesn’t know she’s slipping. I’ll make sure she doesn’t have to feel it, not the way I’ve watched people suffer from this drug. I won’t let that happen to her. If I can take the worst of it for her, I will. I’d do anything.

The toast snaps up. I grab the slices, plate everything in clean motion, just as the bathroom door creaks open. I glance up. And she’s there, paler, shaken, barely steady on her feet. But still undeniably, painfully beautiful.

Elle moves like the world’s spinning too fast beneath her, but there’s elegance even in the way she sways. Sweat glazes her skin, her forehead damp, strands of hair clinging to her perfect face. She blinks hard, like she’s fighting to stay upright. And I can’t stop staring, taking in everything, even the hurt she’s trying to hide.

I set the plate down and breathe out. This is only the beginning. But if I do this right, if I’m careful, she won’t suffer the worst of it. I smooth my expression, even with my mask on, before I cross the space between us. “Eat.”

She stares at me, dazed. “I…don’t feel well.”

I hand her the plate. “I know. Food will help.”

She struggles a bit. So I guide her, my hand on the small of her back, keeping her steady. I pull a chair out, ease her down into it, and place the fork in her hand. She doesn’t question it. Because she trusts me. But if she knew the full truth, maybe she wouldn’t. That thought kills me more than it should.

Elle picks at her food. Pushes it around her plate. Nibbles the toast with trembling fingers. She might think I don’t notice, but I do. I notice everything about her. The way her shoulders tense. The way her body fights itself. I’d take it from her if I could. Every ache. Every tremor. Every goddamn second of it. Because this is my fault. Because I was too late. Because if I don’t make this right, I don’t deserve to touch her again.

The silence between us stretches thin. Finally, she exhales softly, setting down the fork like it’s too heavy to hold. Her voice comes out hesitant, careful, and quiet. “Can I…ask for your name?”

I glance up, meeting her eyes. Even though she’s shivering, her eyes on me hold steady. My mask hides how that look alone has me frozen. I can’t answer her right away. Saying it out loud makes this all real, makes me real to her in a way I haven’t been before. But eventually, I say, “Sterling.”

She blinks, dark lashes faltering. “Sterling,” she barely whispers.

The sound of it hits me hard. I like the way she says my name too damn much.

Her eyes drop down slowly. “Do we know each other?”

She asks the question like she’s afraid of the answer. Afraid that she’s lost something she can’t quite place. Maybe memories she’s desperate to remember.