36. Rowan
ROWAN
Samson doesn’t take his arm off me the entire walk to the basement.
“I haven’t been down here before,” I remark as we pass several unmarked doors.
“No,” Samson says grimly. “If I’m being honest, this is the one and only time I want you down here.”
I don’t argue. Ansel, Neo, and Wyatt stayed behind. Cade and Wylder decided to comfort their partners while Harley announced he wasn’t one for torture unless there were specific circumstances.
I have a feeling those circumstances only extend to anyone who hurts or threatens Jules, and no one else.
Dalton is accompanying us. I clear my throat nervously. “Are we sure this is going to be okay?”
“What?” Samson asks.
“Just us three going in there,” I explain. “I mean, I’m about as useful as a wet paper towel. That just leaves you two.”
Dalton and Samson exchange an incredulous glance.
Then they burst out laughing.
I stop walking, not understanding the joke. “What?”
“We’re not scared of Scott Johnson,” Samson explains. “Either one of us alone could kill him without any effort. Even if he were armed, it wouldn’t slow us down.”
“I’m just here in case Samson decides to let me be the one to enjoy taking Scott’s life.” Dalton sighs happily, like it’s a sunny day at the beach he’s anticipating, not murder. “I’m not needed, just love the violence.”
A lump forms in my throat. “Really? Either one of you could kill him?”
Samson tilts his head. “Rowan, are you okay? What’s going on?”
I take a deep breath, but it’s like there’s a heavy weight on my chest. How can I articulate what I’m thinking when I can’t even fill my own lungs?
“Breathe, baby,” Samson murmurs, gently pushing the top of my back until my head is level with my knees. “Just keep breathing.”
He holds me there until I stop hyperventilating, his arm moving to my waist when I finally straighten. The concern in his eyes has some of my fear ebbing away.
“Are you okay?”
“No,” I answer honestly. “If the man behind those doors is so little of a threat, how was he able to kill so many? How was he able to kill Adam?”
Adam wasn’t a fighter, but he was brave. He would’ve gone down swinging.
Oh god, I miss him.
“Oh,” Samson says softly, twisting until we’re face to face. “We haven’t explained ourselves properly. Scott’s not a threat to us. We have been trained since a young age. We’re literal assassins.”
“Even those of us who aren’t official Buckinghams undergo basic self-defense training,” Dalton adds. “You’ll be given the same lessons now that you’re one of us.”
“Really?”
“Really.” Samson’s thumbs rub soothing circles on my sides. “You can choose your teacher. Whoever you feel most comfortable with.”
“You,” I say immediately. “I want you.”
Samson’s smile is small, but powerful enough to illuminate even the darkest room. “Maybe we can do an exchange. Dance lessons for self-defense ones.”
Despite the circumstances, I find myself returning his smile. “I’d love that.”
“But going back to the cunt behind that door…” Samson steps aside with a sigh. “He’s very much a threat. Adam wouldn’t have stood a chance against him.”
“Okay.” I swallow once. Twice. My throat stays as dry as before. “I hate that, but okay. I’m ready. Let’s do this.”
I turn to face the final door in the corridor and blink in surprise. “The Hospitality Suite?”
“For our most special guests.” Dalton flashes his teeth and opens the door with a flourish. “After you.”
It takes a minute for my eyes to adjust to the bright light. When they do, I’m surprised by what I see. The room is clean and orderly. There’s not a single weapon to be seen.
The only hints that this room has a more sinister function are two metal tables that appear to be bolted down, the smell of bleach, and the drain in the center of the floor.
I shiver lightly. Yeah, I’ll be happy to never come back down here again.
Seated directly over the drain is a man. He’s bound to a chair, a strip of gray tape over his mouth.
At first glance, he appears deceptively normal. He’s around fifty, I’d say, judging by the lines on his face and silver at his temples. His clothes, albeit rumpled and dirty, are smart. All in all, he looks like a normal middle-aged guy.
Until you look into his eyes.
They’re a shade of brown that’s nearing black. Or perhaps it’s just the cold evil lingering within making them seem that way. He hasn’t looked away from me since I entered the room.
I know in my bones that this is Adam’s killer.
“Can you remove the tape?” I ask Samson, not taking my eyes off the man. I won’t call him by his name, not even in my head. He doesn’t deserve it. “I have a question for him.”
Samson nods, stepping forward. With a flick of his fingers, he rips the tape from the man’s mouth. He winces, but that’s the only show of pain he gives. He cocks his head at me in interest. “What little birdie have you brought me to play with today?”
Samson growls, grabbing him by his throat. He squeezes so hard I hear something pop. “If you so much as look at him wrong, I’ll remove your eyeballs. Slowly.”
Part of me thinks I should protest at that, but really, I don’t like the way he’s looking at me either. Or the disgusting tone he used when he spoke.
Is this how he treated Adam before killing him?
The man coughs when Samson finally releases him. I twitch my fingers at my side, quietly begging Samson to return to me. He notices the tiny flicker of movement, coming back to my side and tucking me under his arm.
With Samson beside me, I find my courage. “Why?”
His killer smirks. “Why what?”
“Please let me kill him,” Dalton mutters under his breath. “He’s been like this for fucking days already.”
The Buckinghams have had him down here for days? The thought oddly warms me. They removed him from the streets, but didn’t harm him.
Because of me. Because they wanted me to have a choice.
I already know what I’m going to choose—have since the second Matthias showed us the first file.
Being down here isn’t for Adam’s killer. It’s for me. For closure.
“Why Adam?” I demand. “Why him?”
“Why anyone?” the man drawls. “Who knows what causes an obsession? Or what drives it to such destructive ends? You should ask that man with his arm around you. Maybe he’s the one you should be worrying about.”
Samson growls, taking a step forward, but I stop him with a hand on his chest. “No. I don’t need to. Samson will never hurt me. He loves me.”
I realize then that this is a waste of time. Adam’s killer isn’t going to give me what I need.
But maybe his death will.
My hands tremble as I walk right up to him. I don’t stop until our shoes brush. “Adam Willis was my best friend. A son. A brother. A talented artist. You killed him.”
“Adam.” He draws out the single word like a taunt. “Oh, yes. He was a favorite of mine.”
His head snaps back, and I stare at my hand in surprise. I have no recollection of hitting him, but the stinging of my palm tells me that’s exactly what’s happened.
Large arms encircle my waist as lips press to my neck. “He’s not worth it, Row. Don’t lower yourself to his level. It only gives him satisfaction.”
The killer spits out a mouthful of blood and offers me a sinister grin. Samson is right; I’m giving him exactly what he wants.
No more.
I step back, Samson moving with me. “Dalton?”
He’s at my side in an instant. “Yes?”
“You’re already at his level, right?”
Dalton gives me a wicked smirk as he pulls out his dagger. “For years and years.”
I nod. Just once. “Then teach him all you know.”
Adam’s killer doesn’t start screaming until we’re in the corridor. I listen for a few moments before turning my back on the room.
The Firm are right. Some people deserve to die.
That man in there, he deserves it more than most.
There’s a peace surrounding me as I walk up those basement steps. I’m shaken, yes, but also I feel peace. Peace knowing that everything wrong is going to right itself, and soon.
“You look pale,” Samson says, leading me toward the kitchen. “You need some sugar…something.”
“I need to brush my teeth and take a shower. I feel…gross.”
I pull at my shirt, and Samson stares down at it for a moment before nodding. “Fine. A shower and new clothes and then I’ll make sure you have something to eat. Chocolate, maybe? Cake?”
Neither sounds good, but I nod and let him lead me to his room.
It’s in his bathroom that he undresses me, my clothes falling onto the floor, my naked skin pale under the lights.
While I brush my teeth, he flicks the shower on, and when it’s warm I step underneath it.
The water pricks my skin, harsh and violent.
It feels like small stabs to my chest, and I turn, my hands over my face.
I feel like I’m slowly losing control, but then I feel it—warm arms twining around me, a strong body against my own. Samson.
I lean back, and he scrubs my skin with the bar of soap, his mouth on my neck, his tongue laving over my frantic pulse.
“You’re okay, Row,” he murmurs against my ear as his fingers flick my nipples.
I didn’t believe that minutes ago, but I believe it now.
Mainly because he’s here with me, holding me, grounding me.
I made the right choice. Dalton taking care of that man was right.
I have no doubt about it. He needs to die.
Slowly, painfully, for everyone he hurt before and after Adam, and for Adam himself.
Samson holding me now confirms that I made the right choice.
“Come on,” Samson says, his voice low, the water flicking off. “You need to dry off. You’re shaking.”
I am, my entire body trembling as he swipes the water from my skin and tucks me under the covers of his bed—our bed.
He follows me beneath, his naked skin against my own. His leg is thrown over mine, his arm twined around my waist. I can’t stop shaking, can’t stop the way my teeth clack as I try and keep myself under control.
I met the man who killed my best friend. My family. My one and only.
And he’s going to die tonight.
“You need a distraction?” Samson asks, his breath warm against my earlobe.
I nod, and he holds me tighter, his body like a weighted blanket against my own. And pretty soon, the feel of him pressed against me steadies me, calms my breathing, and makes those shudders dissipate.
And then I’m feeling something else entirely.
I missed him.
Samson.
I want him.
My lips touch his, my tongue pushing into his mouth as I kiss him tentatively. He meets each one, my legs twining around his waist as our lips press over and over. My groans turn into pleas as his cock thrusts against my own. I want him inside of me. It’s been so long, far too long of a wait.
He flips me over and works me open, two fingers and then three, until my hips are thrusting back against his hand, my face pressed into the mattress, my voice cracking as I beg for more, to be filled, to be split open.
He obliges.
Finally.
He flips me onto my back as he stares down at me.
“Tell me,” he says softly, and I reach up and touch his cheeks, his cock slowly sliding into me.
I don’t need to ask what he wants to hear. I know. “I love you, Samson.”
He groans and slides home.
And as he rocks into me, bringing me over the edge in a matter of minutes, I realize that this is where I’m meant to be. In his arms, in this home.
With him.