41. Samson
SAMSON
I don’t sleep long. I don’t need to.
But when I wake, I don’t move.
She’s still here.
That’s the first thing that hits.
Not the castle.
Not the threat.
Not the open questions waiting for answers.
Her.
Delaney.
Close enough that I can feel the heat of her without touching her. Close enough that I remember exactly what it took to get her here.
What we didn’t stop.
My body tenses.
That’s the problem.
Not the old man at the marina.
Not the one who ran.
Not even the one who sent him.
Those are variables.
Variables can be dealt with.
This…
God…
She’s on her side, facing away slightly, one arm tucked beneath her, hair spilling across the pillow. There’s nothing guarded about her like this. Nothing sharp or defensive.
And that’s what makes this dangerous. Because she’s not the only one who let her guard down.
I did too.
That’s not something I allow.
I lift my hand but I don’t touch her yet.
If I do, I’m not sure I’ll be able to pull back.
Damn.
I don’t like anything that shifts the ground under my feet. Delaney does that without even trying.
I drop my hand and get out of bed.
I pull on jeans and step out into the hallway. Then I go downstairs to the security room and bring the system online.
I move to the security wall and check all the feeds. Nothing immediate. No movement on the property. No breach.
But that doesn’t mean anything.
Not anymore.
I shift to external tracking.
Her building.
The marina.
Known routes.
Then—
Not active. But recent. Too recent.
I pull the data forward.
Routing markers. Access logs. Financial shell pings. Someone is moving through old cleanup channels. And it’s not random.
That’s not street-level.
That’s not the kind of man who runs when he’s seen.
That’s structure.
That’s planning.
That’s—
I stop the thought before it finishes.
No.
Not yet.
I dig deeper.
The pathways aren’t current.
They’re old.
Dormant accounts.
Closed loops.
Things that were used once and buried by someone who knew how to make things disappear without leaving a trace.
I know exactly one person who operates like that.
Nathaniel.
I lean back slightly, eyes still on the screen.
It doesn’t mean it’s him. It only means someone has access to his work. To the systems he built. To the way he makes things disappear.
That’s worse.
Because if it’s not him, it’s someone who understands him. Someone close enough to move through his structures without setting off alarms.
Someone who knows what matters.
And what doesn’t.
The memory hits without warning.
The dock.
The chain already open.
The timing.
The positioning.
Everything already in place.
I didn’t question it because it didn’t feel like something I needed to question.
That’s the part that doesn’t sit right.
I tighten my hand on the edge of the console.
I should tell her. She’s already in it too deep to pull back.
I still don’t do it.
Because once I say Nathaniel’s name I can’t take it back.
And I don’t move on instinct where he’s concerned.
Not without proof. He’s still my brother.
He’s still blood. My blood. My father’s blood.
We were taught to respect each other’s place in the system.
I may not always like how Nate handles things.
I may not always like what he says. I hate that he called Delaney my weakness. But he has his place, and I have mine.
I shut down the monitors so Delaney won’t see what I saw if she comes in here.
Then I hear her. Soft footsteps and then her fragrance.
“You’re already up,” she says.
I turn then. She’s standing in the doorway, barefoot and wrapped in nothing but one of my shirts.
She looks fucking delectable.
She glances past me to the system and then back. “You didn’t wake me.”
“You needed the sleep.”
“And you didn’t?”
“I don’t need it.” I clear my throat. “If you’re sore, a warm bath with Epsom salts will help.”
She smiles. “I’m fine.” She steps closer.
My body reacts before my mind does.
She stops within reach. Close enough that I can see the exact moment her gaze shifts from my face to the dark monitors and back.
“You found something,” she says.
I don’t reply.
“You’re doing it again,” she says. “That thing you do.”
Not this again. “You’re going to need to be more specific.”
She steps closer. “You go still. Like you’ve already made a decision you’re not telling me about.”
She’s not wrong. That doesn’t mean I’ll confirm it. “I’m thinking,” I say.
“No,” she says. “You’re editing. You’re deciding how much to tell me. Just enough so you’re not lying but not enough that you’re telling the whole truth.”
I hold her gaze. “You want everything in real time?”
“Yes.”
“That’s not how this works.”
“It is if I’m part of it.”
“That doesn’t mean you get every piece the second I see it.”
“Why not?”
Because I don’t trust what it means yet.
Because I don’t trust what I’ll do with it.
“Because not everything is ready to be used,” I say.
Her eyes narrow. “Another one of your non-answers.”
“It’s the one you’re getting.”
Then—
“Right.” She steps away. “You don’t trust me.”
Her tone isn’t loud or emotional. That makes it worse.
“This isn’t about trust.”
“Then what is it about?”
I rise and step toward her. Close the distance she created. “It’s about timing.”
“Then you’d better figure out the right time”—she pauses a moment—“before I do.”
She turns and walks out of the room. I hear her shuffle back up the stairs.
I stand there for a second longer than I should. Then I bring the system back up just long enough to look at the data again.
At the pathways.
At the structure.
At the name I didn’t say.
Nathaniel.
This just got worse.
Not outside.
Inside.
And I’m the one who made it that way.