34. Delaney
DELANEY
He doesn’t move.
Neither do I.
The space between us is barely there now. I feel the heat of him, the shift in his breathing, the way something in him is holding on only by a thread.
My pulse is still racing under his fingers.
He hasn’t taken his hand away.
I don’t ask him to.
I don’t step back.
“What happens if they’re right?” I whisper.
His gaze doesn’t leave mine. “They are.”
“That you’ll react?”
“Yes.”
“That you’ll hurt someone?”
“If they touch you.”
A shiver moves through me. “Then what changes?”
Something moves behind his eyes. “I do.”
His words land in my gut and stay there.
I believe him.
That might be the problem.
I look at his mouth. He notices. Electricity flares between us. The same current from last night.
I don’t fight it.
I lean in.
Enough that if he moves only slightly there’s no space left for anything else.
He tightens his hand on my neck.
My breath catches. “Samson…please…”
“Don’t,” he says.
“Don’t what?” I ask, clearing my throat.
“You know what.”
I don’t.
Or maybe I do and I’m choosing not to admit it.
“That didn’t seem to be a problem before,” I say.
He shifts his thumb. “That was before I understood what I was dealing with.”
“And now you do?”
“No.” A pause. “And that’s the problem.”
I should step back. I don’t.
Neither does he.
For a second—just one—I think he’s going to close the distance. That he’s going to take the decision out of my hands the way he did before.
Part of me wants that way more than I should.
Until—
He lets go.
Just like that.
The absence of his hand hits harder than the contact.
I inhale sharply.
He steps back. “Not again,” he says.
“Why not?”
“Because this time,” he says, “you’re going to know exactly what you’re stepping into.”
I let out a huff. “And you think I don’t already?”
“No,” he says quietly. “I don’t think you do.”
I open my mouth to respond but nothing comes out.
“I have some business to attend to,” he says. “Look around. Your bedroom is upstairs. It’s the one with the linens on the bed. I’ve had supplies brought in for you.”
“Samson…”
“I’ll be back soon. You’re safe here. Feel free to look around.”
I look around. “Is anyone else here?”
He shakes his head. “That’s what makes it safe.”
Then he’s gone. He leaves me here. Alone.
I brush the chill from my arms. Time to explore my new home.
I move slowly down the hallway, brushing the surface with my fingers as I pass. There isn’t anything on the walls, not like the oil portrait of Arthur Vexley in the foyer of Vexley House. Here the décor is minimal. Just lighting and a few pieces of furniture scattered here and there.
Nothing that suggests anyone stays here longer than necessary.
A place to disappear.
Or to be hidden.
That’s what this is. Not a home. A holding place. A safe house.
A castle without warmth.
Fit for a beast.
I pass through the first room on the left. It’s a kitchen—a huge kitchen. Stainless steel, dark stone, nothing left out, nothing mid-use. No glass in the sink. No trace of a meal ever started and abandoned.
I move on.
The next room stops me.
Screens. All dark for now, but I don’t need them lit to understand what they are. High-tech security. And just because the screens are dark doesn’t mean the system isn’t working. I’m betting Samson has access to this whole place on his phone.
A large room near the back is an office, complete with a wood-burning fireplace. There’s no fire, of course, but as I approach it I feel a waft of heat.
A fire was burning recently. Very recently.
There’s a desk, several chairs, bookshelves, and file cabinets. A bar with several decanters of liquor.
I step back into the hall.
And that’s when I see it.
The door.
I reach the end of the hall.
This door doesn’t belong. Everything else in this place is modern.
This isn’t.
A heavy chain wraps around the handles, dark with rust, thick enough that it feels out of place in a house like this.
At the center is an old iron lock that’s scarred and weathered. Like it’s been here longer than everything else.
My stomach knots as I take a step closer. Then another.
The air feels different here. Heavier. Like the space itself knows what’s behind that door.
I reach out—
“You don’t touch that.”
Samson’s voice lands behind me.
My breath shifts, but I don’t jump. “I thought you had work to do,” I say without turning to face him.
“I did. I do. But I returned because I forgot something. And it’s a good thing I did. You stay away from that.”
I shrug innocently. “But you told me to look around.”
“I figured you’d know that if a door is locked, you don’t try to get in.” His voice gets louder. He’s stepping closer. “And that door stays closed.”
“Why?” I ask.
“Because.”
“That’s not a reason.”
He lays a firm hand on my shoulder. “It is here.”
I turn slowly, and then I gasp.
He’s barefoot. Shirtless. Didn’t he say he was going to do some work?
I drop my gaze to his right hand. To the ring. The key. “You can open it,” I say.
“Yes.”
“Have you?”
He clears his throat. “No.”
I look back at the lock. At the chain biting into metal like it’s been pulled tight too many times. “What’s behind it?” I ask.
“Something that should stay buried.”
My pulse kicks.
Not fear.
Something sharper.
“I don’t like things I’m not allowed to see,” I say.
“I know.”
“Then you know I’m going to open it.”
Something almost like a smile touches his mouth. “Not without me.”
“And with you?”
He narrows his amber eyes. “That depends on whether I decide you should.”
My skin heats. I should push back. I should fight him on it.
Instead I take a step closer. “You keep deciding things for me.”
“I decide what keeps you alive.”
“That’s not the same thing.”
“It is here.”
“Then maybe I don’t want to stay alive the way you define it.”
“Careful,” he says.
“Or what?”
“You won’t like the answer.”
My heart is beating too fast. Not from fear. From arousal. “Try me.”
He moves.
Fast.
One step.
Then another.
Until there’s no space left.
My back hits the door.
The chain rattles softly behind me.
The lock shifts against the metal.
The sound is loud in the silence.
He braces his hand beside my head. I’m hyper-aware of his naked chest, his masculine fragrance, his full lips.
He’s caging me in.
“You don’t get to play with things you don’t understand,” he says.
“I understand enough.”
His eyes smolder. “You understand nothing about what’s behind that door.”
“Then show me.”
He drops his gaze to my lips for a split second. I like them. He forces his gaze back to meet my eyes.
“You think this is a game,” he says.
I lift an eyebrow. “I think you’re hiding something.”
“I am.”
My pulse jumps. “At least you admit it.”
“Only when it matters.”
“And this matters?”
“Everything about you being here matters,” he says in a low whisper.
God… My body remembers. Too easily. Too quickly.
I hold his gaze. And I slowly slide out from under his arm. I brush my fingers over his wrist as I pass.
I walk back down the hall. Away from the door. Away from the lock. Away from him.
But I feel it behind me.
The chain. The rusted iron. The weight of something sealed for too long.
As I reach the main room, one thought settles in. I’m not going to leave that door closed.
Not for him.
Not for anyone.