9. Samson
SAMSON
She doesn’t look away.
Most people do.
They come into this house and they look at the ceilings, the glass, the stone like they’re trying to absorb it all. Or they lower their gaze and choose not to look because they’re overwhelmed.
Delaney Cross does neither.
She homes in on the one constant.
The key.
Most people never notice it. Or if they do, they assume it’s decorative and move on.
She doesn’t touch it. But she comes close. Close enough to understand it matters.
A smile pulls at my mouth.
Damn. This woman makes me want to smile more than anyone I’ve ever met.
“Come with me,” I say.
I don’t wait to see if she will. I turn and walk out into the corridor, knowing she’ll follow. She can’t help herself. She wants something. An answer. I’m just not sure of the question yet. But I’m fairly certain it has to do with Victor Halstead.
A name I prefer to keep buried inside my head where no one touches it.
I move at an even pace. I don’t explain anything. I don’t point things out.
I let her see what she sees.
Behind me, her footsteps remain steady. No hesitation. No attempt to fill the silence with questions or polite conversation.
She’s observing.
I can feel it.
We pass the main hall and then the staircase. The railing is iron, worked into a pattern most people would call ornamental.
It isn’t.
I don’t look back.
I don’t need to.
I know the moment she sees it again.
The key.
It’s in the railing, in the negative space between lines. Subtle enough to be missed by anyone not looking.
She’s looking.
We continue down the corridor, past a series of closed doors. Rooms that serve purposes no guest has ever needed to understand. A library that holds more contracts than books. A dining room used for more meetings than meals.
This house was never meant to be warm. Even my mother—may she rest in peace—couldn’t add warmth. And she tried. She tried so hard.
I slow near the far end of the hall, where a section of stone breaks the continuity of the wall. The carving there is older. Less precise.
I turn.
She’s a few steps behind me, eyes still moving, still taking everything in. She shifts her attention to the stone.
“It’s everywhere,” she says.
“Yes.”
She steps closer to the wall. “The same symbol.”
I watch her instead of the carving.
“What does it open?”
She can’t help herself. Delaney Cross is a woman who likes to know things.
“Some doors aren’t meant to be opened,” I say.
My answer lingers between us. In the way the blue in her eyes seems to deepen. In the way she tilts her head just slightly, just enough for me to notice the silver scale pendant at her throat shift.
“That sounds like a warning,” she finally says.
“It is.”
Again the head tilt. “You don’t seem like the type to leave doors closed.”
I suppress a quiet chuckle. “I’m not.”
“Then why should I?”
Because you don’t understand what you’re stepping into.
Because once you start, you won’t be able to stop.
Because there are things in this house that don’t come undone easily.
I don’t say any of that.
Instead, I take a step toward her.
Not enough to crowd her.
Enough to shift the air.
“That depends,” I say, “on whether you’re prepared for what’s on the other side.”
She doesn’t move.
Doesn’t step back.
Her pulse jumps again at the base of her throat. I see it. I remember it from last night, how quickly it betrayed her when I touched her wrist, and how fast she covered it. Her fingers move to the pendant, just a slight touch, as if it grounds her.
“I didn’t come here to stay on one side of any door,” she says.
Something tightens low in my chest. How easy it would be to grab her, pull her to me, kiss her.
And not just any kiss. A fucking ferocious one, where I shove my tongue through those luscious lips of hers and take what I want.
I’ll do it. I’m going to do things to her she never dreamed of. I’m going to do things to her she doesn’t want…and make her want them.
But not yet.
She’s standing in my house, and she’s not adjusting herself to fit more comfortably into it.
It’s unusual.
And a huge turn-on.
I shift my attention away from her, breaking the connection between us before it goes further than I intend.
“Come on,” I say.
I turn again, moving down another corridor, away from the stone, away from that moment.
She follows.
We move through the rest of the house without stopping. Delaney doesn’t hesitate, and she doesn’t intrude. She’s simply present.
That, more than anything, is what I notice.
Most people adjust themselves in a place like this. She doesn’t.
And she doesn’t attempt to walk next to me. She’s comfortable letting me lead, which surprises me. Then again, it also makes sense. This place is foreign to her. Hell, it feels foreign to me half the time.
Her curiosity should make her easier to predict.
It doesn’t.
We reach a set of doors that open onto a narrow balcony overlooking the lower level.
I stop.
She steps up beside me.
For a moment, neither of us speaks.
“You built this,” she says.
I did not. This house was built a century ago. But my father built the structure. And my brothers and I—well, Nate and I; Cain left before he had much of a role—honed it.
“Yes.”
“It doesn’t feel like a place people live.”
“It’s not.” I thin my lips. “I mean, that’s not its main purpose.”
“Then what is its main purpose?”
A simple question.
A complicated answer.
I don’t reply. Simply lead her back to the front of the house.
At the door, she pauses. “So,” she says, turning to face me. “Was the tour part of the invitation I didn’t get?”
A faint smile touches my mouth. “You came anyway.”
“Yes.”
“And did you find what you were looking for?”
“No.”
She’s honest. I respect that.
“Then I suppose you’ll have to come back,” I say.
“Maybe,” she says.
Not a promise. Not a refusal.
Good enough.
I open the door. I could walk her to her car. I should offer.
I don’t.
She steps out into the cooler air.
She turns once at the top of the steps, as if she might say something else.
She doesn’t.
Then she walks to her car.
I watch her this time.
Not the whole way.
Just long enough.
I return to my office and close the door behind me, shutting out the rest of the house.
Silence fills the space.
I stand at the desk for a moment and then sit. My thumb finds the ring before I consciously think about it. The edge of the engraving presses against my skin as I turn it slowly.
The key.
Always the key.
I run my thumb along the teeth, feeling the uneven cuts, the deliberate asymmetry.
I think of her fingers hovering just above the carving on the wall.
Not touching.
Some doors aren’t meant to be opened.
The words sound different now.
Less like a rule. More like a challenge.
I turn the ring again.
And again.
The metal warms under my touch.
I’ve never had trouble opening anything I’ve set my mind to. I’ve never left a question unanswered once it’s taken hold.
Delaney Cross is becoming a question.
And I don’t like leaving things unanswered.
Especially not when they stand in front of me and look back without flinching.
I still feel the echo of her presence in the room.
I press my thumb harder against the ring, feeling the edge bite just slightly into my skin.
Some doors aren’t meant to be opened.
Delaney Cross is certainly not meant to be opened by me. She’s trouble. Trouble wrapped up in dark hair and steely blue eyes and the most luscious pair of lips I’ve ever seen.
I should stay away. Take care of her. Make it so she never crosses my path again. But I already know I won’t. I already know I can’t.
Some doors aren’t meant to be opened.
Delaney Cross opened a door. She stepped through it.
Now that she’s inside?
I decide what happens next.