Samson
I close the office door behind me, and the sound of the club hits all at once—music, voices, glass, bodies packed too close together.
And then—
Her.
Delaney stands just off the edge of the crowd. She isn’t blending in. She’s holding herself still.
I walk toward her. People move out of my way. They always do. I don’t look at them. I don’t slow.
I grab her arm but she yanks it free.
“What happened?” I demand. “Why are you still here?”
“I went outside,” she says.
“And?”
She pauses for a moment. Then she draws in a breath. “I was grabbed.”
Rage curls at my neck, and every cell in my body goes on alert. I’m ready. Ready as I always am. For battle.
“Where?” I growl.
“Half a block down.”
“Who?”
“I didn’t see his face.”
Doesn’t matter.
I reach for her wrist again. She stiffens the moment I touch her, but this time she doesn’t yank it away. I turn her hand over and press my thumb into her palm. Then I look into her eyes, at her lips, at her arms.
No marks. At least no new ones.
“What did he do?” I ask.
“He stopped me.”
“Did he hurt you?”
“No.”
Relief swirls through me, even though this means someone sent him to send a message. And I’m pretty sure it was Nate. I hope he’s up for another left hook from me.
I lift my gaze back to hers. “What did he say?”
She doesn’t look away. “He said, ‘It didn’t end that night. And if you don’t stop this, it will never end.’”
My body goes tense. I release her wrist but then take it again immediately.
“What did he mean by that?” she asks.
I don’t answer. “Come with me.”
“I’m not—”
“You are.”
I turn and move, pulling her with me. She resists for half a step but then adjusts quickly, matching my pace instead of fighting it.
Good.
We cut through the crowd, the noise fading as we move toward the back corridor. The shift from chaos to quiet is immediate once we pass through the door. I don’t stop until we’re inside a private room and the door is shut behind us.
Only then do I release her.
She turns on me right away. “What the hell was that?”
I ignore it. “Did he touch you anywhere else?”
Her expression sharpens. “Excuse me?”
I scan her from head to toe. “Your wrist. Your shoulders. Your throat. Anywhere I can’t see.”
“I said I’m fine.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
She lifts her chin. “I’m not letting you inspect me like that.”
I step closer.
She doesn’t move back.
“Turn.”
“No.”
“Turn, or I’ll do it for you.”
She holds my gaze for a second longer, anger flashing, and then shifts just enough to give me her shoulder, the line of her neck.
I look. Nothing. No sign of force. Whoever it was knew exactly how far to go.
I step back. “That wasn’t random.”
“You think?” she snaps.
“You don’t know what it means.”
Her eyes narrow. “Someone grabbed me and told me that if I don’t stop, this will never end. You’re damned right I don’t know what it means. So explain it.”
I close the distance again. I have no intention of explaining anything to her. “Someone put their hands on you,” I say instead.
She lifts her chin. “Yes.”
“And they knew exactly how far to go.”
“Is that supposed to make me feel better?”
“No.” I hold her gaze. “It’s supposed to tell you this wasn’t about stopping you.”
Silence stretches between us.
“Then what was it about?” she asks.
I don’t reply. Not yet. Because the statement could mean any number of things. Though I’m pretty sure I know exactly what the derelict meant.
She huffs. “I’m not backing off.”
“I know.”
“So are you going to explain what he meant, or what?” she asks, whipping her wrist away from me and placing her hands on her hips.
Again, I don’t answer. I take her wrist again. She doesn’t pull away this time.
“You’re leaving,” I say, “with me.”
“I didn’t ask you to—”
“You’re not asking.”
“I don’t need you to take me home.”
“This isn’t about what you need.”
Her eyes flash. “Stop deciding things for me.”
“Then stop putting yourself in reach.”
For a second, neither of us moves. Then she exhales, clearly frustrated, but she doesn’t pull away.
I don’t give her time to change her mind. I turn and move for the door, pulling her with me as I open it and step back into the corridor.
This time, I keep her close. Not behind me. Not ahead of me. Close enough that I can feel exactly where she is without looking.
We move through the club without stopping. The noise, the people, none of it matters now. My attention is on the edges, the exits, anything out of place.
Someone made a move.
Someone stepped in.
Someone thought they could put their hands on something in my world—
No.
Not something.
Her.
I don’t slow as we reach the exit. I push through the door and into the night, guiding her straight to my car without breaking stride.
She hesitates once, just before the passenger door. “I can take care of myself.”
“I know.”
“Then why—”
“Get in.”
She looks at me for a second longer and then slides inside.
I walk around the car, get in the driver’s side, and start the engine.
“Where’s your driver?” she asks snidely.
“Shut up,” is all I say.
We pull away from the curb. I keep one hand on the wheel, the other braced near the center console, aware of her without looking at her.
She’s quieter now. She’s probably thinking. Knowing her, she’s already calculating her next move.
Good.
Because so am I.
Someone moved. Someone tested the boundary. Someone told her without telling her.
It didn’t end that night.
I should know.
I know something else too.
Whoever it was will never touch her again.