7. Axel
Chapter Seven
AXEL
I tap my fingers against the steering wheel as I drive toward The Summit, a smile playing at my lips.
It’s been one week since I brought Sami home with me, and everything is falling into place exactly as I planned.
She sleeps in my bed every night, wears my clothes around the house, and depends on me for rides to and from work.
Each day, she surrenders a little more of her independence without even realizing it.
Each day, she becomes a little more mine.
She hasn’t even asked about her apartment in three days.
The last time she mentioned it was to complain about her landlord’s latest text about the water heater.
I nodded sympathetically while secretly thanking the incompetent bastard for making my job easier.
Nothing helps a man stake his claim like offering solutions to problems.
As I’m driving, my phone rings through the car speakers. Lainey’s name flashes on the screen, and I hit accept.
“What’s up, step-mommy?” I say, taking the turn that leads to The Summit.
“Don’t call me that,” she groans, but I can hear the smile in her voice. “How’s operation ‘make Sami completely dependent on you’ going?”
I laugh. “That’s not what I’m doing.”
“Please. I’ve known you since you were fifteen. You’ve got that poor girl living in your house after knowing her for a week.”
“She needed a place to stay,” I say, though we both know it’s more than that. “Her apartment is a shithole with no hot water.”
“Uh-huh.” Lainey’s tone is pure skepticism. “And I’m sure you’re being a perfect gentleman about it.”
The memory of Sami naked in my bed this morning flashes through my mind. The way she moaned my name. The way her body responded to mine like we were made for each other.
“I’m taking care of her,” I say simply.
“I bet you are.” Lainey snorts. “Listen, Marcus and I want you two to come over for dinner next Friday night. Ruby and Clay will be there too.”
I think about it for a moment. Sami’s been through a lot this week – moving into my place, dealing with her landlord, adjusting to our relationship. Meeting my family formally might overwhelm her.
Then again, she already knows Lainey from the diner, and Ruby and Clay from The Summit. This would just cement her place in my life, show her she belongs with me and mine.
“Sure,” I decide. “What time?”
“Seven. And tell her not to worry about dressing up. Just casual.”
I snort. “Like you’ve ever done anything casual in your life.”
“I’m pregnant and craving comfort food. Marcus is grilling steaks, and I’m making those potatoes you love so much. You know, the creamy garlic ones.”
“Sold,” I reply, pulling into The Summit’s parking lot. “I’ll bring the beer.”
“Alright, I gotta go. This baby is kicking and nature is calling.”
I hang up and pull into the same spot I’ve claimed all week. Close to the entrance, under a streetlight, where I can watch the door like a hawk. My jaw tightens at the sight of the building.
One more week of her working in this place. That’s my limit. After that, I’m making sure she never steps foot in here again.
Clay spots me as I walk in and nods in greeting. We’ve been coordinating all week, him keeping an extra eye on Sami during her shifts. He gets it. A man with a woman to protect understands another man’s priorities.
“She’s finishing up,” he says, falling into step beside me. “It’s been a slow night.”
“Good.” I scan the bar, immediately locating Sami behind the counter. The sight of her in that low-cut uniform still makes my blood boil, but I keep my face neutral. “Any problems tonight?”
“That businessman was back.” Clay’s voice drops lower. “The one who’s been giving her trouble. I kept him away from her section.”
My hands curl into fists at my sides. “Name?”
“Stephen Warwick. Investment banker from Chicago.” Clay passes me a folded napkin with an address scribbled on it. “Staying at the Mountain View Hotel through the weekend.”
I pocket the information without comment. Clay doesn’t ask what I’ll do with it. He doesn’t need to.
Sami’s face lights up when she spots me, and possessive satisfaction burns through my veins. That smile is mine. All mine.
She says something to her coworker and ducks under the bar, weaving through the crowd toward me. Every man she passes watches her. I want to rip their fucking eyes out.
“You’re early,” she says, reaching up to kiss my cheek. “I was expecting you for another twenty minutes.”
“Finished the studio session sooner than expected.” I wrap my arm around her waist, pulling her against my side. Not subtle, but I don’t give a fuck. Every person in this room needs to know she’s claimed. “Ready to go?”
She nods, leaning into me. “Let me grab my purse.”
I watch her walk away, mentally counting down the days until she never has to wear that uniform again. Seven days. Maybe less if I play my cards right.
“I was thinking,” I say once we’re in the truck, “we should stop by your apartment and pick up some more of your stuff.”
After our first night, I took Sami shopping for a few essentials, but I know she’s probably missing some of her own stuff.
Surprise flickers across her face. “Now?”
“Why not? You’re off tomorrow, and you mentioned needing more clothes.” I keep my tone casual. “Plus, I want to see this place that’s charging you for cold showers.”
She laughs. “It’s really not worth the trip. It’s tiny and depressing.”
“All the more reason to get your stuff out of there.” I reach across the console to take her hand. “Bring whatever you want to my place. There’s plenty of room.”
I see the hesitation in her eyes, the instinctive pull toward self-reliance warring with the comfort I’m offering. She’s still fighting this on some level, still holding onto her independence with both hands. It’s cute, really. How she thinks she can resist what’s happening between us.
“Okay,” she says finally. “But don’t say I didn’t warn you about the state of it.”
Twenty minutes later, I’m standing in the smallest, shittiest apartment I’ve ever seen.The place smells of mildew and ancient carpet. A draft whistles through poorly sealed windows, and the radiator in the corner clanks like it’s on its last legs.
Fuck.
This is where my woman has been living for the last three months. This is what she’s been working those degrading shifts to afford.
Rage burns in my gut, but I keep my expression neutral as she moves around the space, gathering clothes and personal items. Every pathetic detail of this place strengthens my position. Every broken fixture and peeling patch of wallpaper makes my home look more like salvation.
“Grab whatever you need, Kitten,” I say, leaning against the doorframe. “No rush.”
She pulls a suitcase from the tiny closet and begins filling it with clothes. Each item she packs is another victory. Another piece of her life being transferred to my territory.
“Should I bring this?” She holds up a framed photo of a coastline. “It’s from Connecticut. The beach near where I grew up.”
“Bring everything that matters to you.” I move closer, studying the photo. A piece of her past, her history. I want it all under my roof. “My walls could use some decoration.”
She smiles, wrapping the frame in a sweater before tucking it into the suitcase. “You sure you don’t mind me taking over your space?”
“It’s our space now.” The words slip out before I can stop them. But instead of the panic I expect to see on her face, there’s only a soft flush of pleasure.
She moves to a small desk in the corner and hesitates, her fingers hovering over a stack of sheet music and composition notebooks.
“These too?” she asks, not meeting my eyes.
“Especially those. I want to hear you play, remember?”
She nods and adds the notebooks to her growing pile of belongings. The suitcase fills quickly—clothes, books, toiletries, mementos. Each item a thread tying her more securely to me.
I watch her mentally catalog what remains, knowing she’s already thinking about what to bring next time. Because there will be a next time. And soon after, there won’t be anything left worth coming back for.
Later that day, I watch Sami from the kitchen as she moves around the living room, organizing the belongings we brought from her apartment. She pauses every few minutes to glance at the baby grand piano in the corner, the longing in her eyes so clear it might as well be a neon sign.
I’ve caught her looking at it all week, hesitating near it, even running her fingers lightly across the closed lid when she thought I wasn’t watching.
But she hasn’t played. Not once. Despite telling me about her dreams of film scoring, despite the stacks of composition notebooks she’s brought to my house, she’s kept this part of herself locked away. Until now.
I pour two glasses of wine and move into the living room, setting them on the coffee table.
“You keep looking at it,” I say, nodding toward the piano. “Are you finally ready to play for me?”
She startles slightly, caught in her longing. “I wasn’t looking at it.”
“Bullshit.” I smile to soften the word. “You’ve been circling it like it might bite you all week.”
Pink flushes her cheeks as she turns back to folding a sweater. “It’s a beautiful instrument. Steinway, right?”
“Model B. Had it delivered when I built the house.” I step closer, taking the sweater from her hands and setting it aside. “Stop stalling, Kitten. Play something for me.”
She looks up at me, vulnerability flickering in those green eyes. “I told you before, it’s personal. I don’t usually play for people.”
“I’m not people.” I brush a strand of hair from her face, my voice dropping lower. “I’m yours. Just like you’re mine.”
Something shifts in her expression. The resistance melting away, replaced by a cautious warmth that makes my chest tighten. I’ve been patient, giving her space to come to this moment on her own terms. Now I can see she’s ready.
“One piece,” she concedes.