14. Delaney
DELANEY
The sky hasn’t fully darkened when I reach my building. I head up to my apartment, slide my key into the lock, and—
I gasp.
The door is unlocked.
I always lock it.
Always.
Still, I stand there for a second, staring at the handle like maybe I’m wrong. Like maybe I rushed out earlier, distracted, thinking about Samson Vexley and the way his body might feel against mine…
No.
I don’t make mistakes like that.
Not about my safety. Not about my space.
A cold awareness spreads through me as I push the door open. I step inside and close the door behind me without taking my eyes off the room.
At first glance, everything looks exactly the same.
Couch. Table. Desk.
Nothing overturned. Nothing broken. Nothing missing.
Then I see it.
The drawer in my desk. It’s barely open. Half an inch, maybe less. But I didn’t leave it like that.
I look around, sharpening my gaze. The book on the coffee table is shifted slightly off center. The throw blanket across the back of the couch is folded wrong.
My laptop is where I left it but angled differently.
The place isn’t trashed. No. This was done methodically. It was searched, with everything placed back just so. That feeling when you’re not sure if anything has been touched because clearly everything has.
My stomach tightens.
Whoever was here didn’t rush. They took their time.
I move to the desk and open the drawer. Everything is there. Pens. Notebooks. Receipts.
I close the drawer slowly.
Then I scan the rest of the apartment again. Nothing is gone. Whoever was here wasn’t looking for something specific.
No.
They were checking. They wanted to know what I know.
A chill slides down my spine.
I move to the kitchen, grab a glass, fill it with water, and take a long swallow.
I brush my arms, trying to ease the feeling that microscopic insects are crawling all over me.
Someone stepped into my space. Left without a trace.
I set the glass down.
The contractor.
The lock.
The timing.
Victor Halstead.
Fifteen years ago.
Something happened that night that didn’t make it into any official report.
And now someone knows I’m getting close.
A knock hits the door. I jump without meaning to.
I walk to the door and look through the peephole.
Samson Vexley. He’s still wearing the dark suit without a tie, the shirt open at the collar. He clearly followed me.
“What do you want?” I ask through the door.
“Let me in, Delaney.”
Why not? He kissed me on the subway, and my lips are still tingling from it.
I open the door.
He walks in and immediately scans the place, taking everything in. When he finally looks at me, his amber eyes are heavy-lidded. “You need to stop,” he says.
“No.” The word comes out before I even think about it.
“Delaney—”
“No.” I step forward. Close the distance. “You don’t get to tell me what to do.”
His eyes darken.
Not anger.
Something heavier.
“You have no idea what you’re getting yourself into,” he says.
“You keep saying things like that,” I tell him.
“Because it’s true.”
He’s probably not wrong. I mean, someone clearly searched my place today. While I was out, doing more research—
“Who was here?” I demand. “Who broke into my apartment?”
But he doesn’t reply. Instead, he advances. Grips my shoulders hard. Enough to startle the hell out of me. Enough to bruise.
“How dare—”
He shoves me back against the wall, and this time it hurts. But before I can protest, his mouth is on mine, his tongue demanding entrance.
I keep my lips locked tight, even as my body betrays me, aching to let him in.
He moves to my ear. “You think this is something you can walk away from,” he whispers. “It’s not.”
“I don’t think that.”
“Then what do you think?”
I think I hate you. And God, I think I want you to kiss me.
“That you’re not telling me everything.”
He lets out a low growl. “Of course I’m not.”
“You knew,” I say. “You knew someone was here.”
“Yes.” He looks around my place again. “Is anything missing?”
“No.”
“They weren’t looking for something you have.”
“No.”
“They were looking at you.”
A chill runs through me. “Not at what I know?”
He pulls me to him, raises his hand once more. I wince, despite myself.
“You’re pushing too far,” he says.
I glare at him. “So are you.”
A pause. I try to steady my breathing.
Then—
“You’re not stopping,” he says.
“No. What are you going to do? Shove me again?”
He slides his hand from my jaw—his touch is oddly comforting—to the back of my neck. He threads his fingers through my hair.
He’s so close. His lips are close to mine. I can feel his breath on my flesh.
“You’re going to get yourself hurt,” he says.
“Or I’m going to find something you don’t want me to.”
Anger flashes in his eyes. His hand is still on the back of my neck. He’s bigger than I am. So much stronger. It wouldn’t take much for him to snap my spine like a twig.
His jaw goes rigid.
I keep my gaze trained on his. I will not back down. I won’t. I’ve come too far to—
“Delaney,” he says, quieter now, “you don’t understand what happens if you get this wrong.”
“Then tell me.” I don’t pull away. I don’t break eye contact. I don’t give him anything.
And for a second—a split second when his eyes soften just a bit—I think he might actually level with me.
Instead he drops his gaze to my mouth.
God.
That look.
He pulls me in, and this time he doesn’t stop.
His mouth crashes onto mine.
Harder than before. Less controlled. Like he’s already past the point of restraint.
My body reacts before my mind catches up.
I grip his shirt. Pull him closer.
He moves his hand high on my neck, threads his fingers through my hair again, and pulls.
With his other hand, he cups my breast.
God… My nipples are so hard. So ready. This man… Samson Vexley. He’s not kind. He’s brutal. He gripped me enough to hurt.
And all I want is for him to keep kissing me.
The kiss deepens.
Hot.
Demanding.
And for a moment everything else disappears. My apartment. The search. The violation. Victor Halstead. My research. The danger.
All of it.
Until he breaks the kiss abruptly.
He takes in a deep breath. Then another as he locks his gaze onto mine. “This is what happens,” he says quietly.
My pulse is racing. “This? A kiss?”
“Do you have any idea what you’re doing, Delaney?” His voice is a growl. “You’re playing with fire.”
“Fire doesn’t scare me.”
A muscle jumps in his jaw. “It should.”
“It doesn’t. So show me the rest.”
“That’s not how this works.”
“Then how does it work?”
“You stop,” he says.
“No.”
His eyes darken. “Then you deal with what comes next.”
“Good.”
He shakes his head. “You think you can handle what’s coming. You’re wrong.” He looks around the apartment once more. “Don’t leave here tonight.”
“That’s not your decision.”
“It is now. Be sure to lock the door.”
“I always do.”
“Tonight you check it twice.” He steps toward the door and then leaves.
I stand there, breathing uneven, my lips still tingling, my body still keyed up.
Something was opened that night.
Or something was sealed.
And Samson Vexley is standing right in the middle of it.
And now…so am I.