Page 72 of Kill for a Kiss

“If Sterling’s okay with it,” she says, so damn soft, “I’d like for you to stick around.”

I freeze. Can’t move. Because I didn’t expect that. My tongue forgets how to work for a second, so I just stare at her like the damn idiot I am. Then she keeps going, because she knows I can’t stand silence. How bad I want to fill the space. She’s doing it to comfortme, when she really shouldn’t care about me. After everything.

“We’re both going through…withdrawals, right?” Her smile’s the most brilliant thing. “Maybe it’ll help knowing we’re not alone in it.”

My shoulders drop. I nod. Can’t say a word still, so I just nod.

When I finally find my voice, I look at Sterling and smirk, trying to slide back into something lighter. “Guess that makes you babysitter of the year, huh? Two to wrangle now. Hope your patience holds up, Sterling.”

He doesn’t even blink when his gaze turns cold. Pointed right at me. Might as well be a gun. But nothing else happens. He sits there, still as stone.Whatever. I’ll take the silence over another fist to the face. I’m beat up enough for the day.

Elle looks between us. First, at me, and I can’t even pose pretty, ‘cause I’m bloodied and bruised and barely holding it together. Then her blue eyes shift to Sterling. I’d be jealous as fuck, if it weren’t for how I see the way her gorgeous face lights up with recognition. I guess she sees it now. The similar mess between me and Sterling.

For some reason, she doesn’t run from it. She stays. That gives me just enough to breathe properly again. So I keep going. It’s not like I ever needed permission to run my mouth.

“Come on, Sterling, you don’t have anything to say? Thought maybe taking care of Elle made you nicer.”

I glance her way, cocking a brow.

“He’s gotta be nice to you, right? Warming up a little? Or does he still have that big ol’ icicle shoved up his ass?”

Elle flattens her mouth down. But I see those cute corners of her pink lips twitch. It’s all I need to smile for real. Still, Sterling’s a goddamn statue.

I click my tongue. “Man, I feel like I’m sixteen again, tryin’ to piss you off just so you’ll show a little personality. Like old times, huh?”

Sterling gives me nothing. He glances at Elle’s untouched mug, then says, “Drink.”

He speaks gentle. But it’s firm enough that even I sit up straighter. Elle doesn’t argue. She picks up the cup and takes a sip, checking his face for that tiny nod of approval. Then Sterling’s up, moving toward the kitchen without a word, all smooth and efficient motion.Boring. But what’s more important is my rumbling tummy. I rub it as I watch him go and mutter under my breath, “If he’s not making food, I swear to god—”

Elle turns to me before I can finish. Her eyes meet mine, and it’s like the floor tilts under me a little. “How have you been feeling?” she says it so soft, so serious, as if I goddamn matter.

I laugh, more out of habit than humor. “Like shit,” I admit. It’s easy with her.

She blinks at me, waiting for more maybe. So I keep going, dragging a hand through my hair.

“It’s been so long since I had a hit. Feels like my skin’s been swapped out with something two sizes too small. Can’t sleep, can’t breathe half the time.” I huff. “And the cherry on top is I found out my own mother’s even more of a monster than I thought.”

Her brows pull together. Sympathy’s written all over her face. It twists my gut. I don’t want her pity. I want—hell, I don’t even know what I want. I just don’t want to feel like this anymore.

“But you know what’s worse?” I meet her eyes. Force the words out before I can talk myself down. “I missed you.”

She doesn’t look away. The kitchen goes quiet. Sterling must’ve heard that, and he’s probably trying his damn best not to come out here and throw me through a wall. I ignore the weight of him in the next room. I’ve got one shot at this. One chance to say what’s been eating me alive.

“I missed you, Elle.” I say it again, more weight in my words this time. “A lot.”

Her lips part like she’s about to speak, but I don’t let her. Can’t, not until I know.

“Do you…” My voice drops. “Do you remember anything? About us?”

It’s stupid. I already know she probably doesn’t. The memory gaps, the blank spaces—hell, it’s been the backdrop of everything we’ve been dealing with. But I still ask. Because I need to hear the answer myself.

She hesitates. My stomach goes sideways. My hands feel too empty, my skin too tight.

Then she tilts her head a little. Her fingers get tighter around her mug. “I remember your bike,” she says quietly.

I blink. “My…what?”

“Your bike,” she says again. “I remember riding it with you.”