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I nod, men and their pride. But I’m no different. I want my pride too.
“Where is he?” he repeats.
“He is standing right in front of you.” I fold my arms across my chest and grin, my eyes daring him to doubt me.
Enzo’s eyes narrow as he looks around for a man to jump out from behind me. It takes him a second to process that I’m not Jocelyn, I’m Kai Miller. Katherine is my actual name, but I haven’t gone by that since I was three and declared my name was Kai. I’ve always been Kai.
His lips curl into a grin. “I knew you were a thief; I didn’t realize you were a liar too, Kai.”
I smile back, tauntingly. “A liar who could have slipped through your cracks and been on the run for a lot longer than you were prepared to search for me. But I didn’t run. I owe you a debt, and now that debt has been repaid.”
He nods. “Your debt is forgiven. But it was a stupid trade, my beautiful, Kai.” He grabs my arm. “Let’s go for a ride on the waves, Kai. I have something I want to show you.”
5
Enzo
This can’t be right.
This girl can’t be Kai Miller.
It has to be a mistake.
Even if she is Kai Miller, my father must have written down the wrong name.
Or there must be a different Kai Miller.
She doesn’t belong in my world.
She doesn’t deserve to die.
Even though she stole your watch without any way to pay you back?
Shut up, I tell the voice in my head.
There is a difference between being punished and dying. She deserves to be punished for her crime, that’s all.
“Show me your ID,” I say.
Jocelyn, or Kai or whatever her name is, bites her lip in the adorable, seductive way she does when she’s thinking hard.
I groan inwardly, but don’t let her see how such a simple movement affects me. I want to kiss her, not kill her.
“I don’t have an ID.”
“What? Did you leave it at home?” I ask, not sure why she would. I don’t know where she lives, but surely she drove to the pier. I know she doesn’t live in any of the large seaside houses that cost millions and are the only homes nearby.
“No, I don’t have an ID.”
I grip her wrist, not believing a word out of her mouth. “You’re older than sixteen, which means you have a driver’s license.”
She shakes her head.
“You’re not at least sixteen?” Shit, how young is she?
“I’m sixteen; I turn seventeen next week.” She hesitates as if she’s ashamed to say the rest. “But I never got my driver’s license.”
I narrow my eyes into slits, demanding her to tell me the truth.
