48. Clara
CLARA
EYES ON FIRE
Samson sounds wild, unhinged. Like he’s on the verge of breaking down and setting this place on fire all at the same time. The intensity of his voice makes me flinch, sliding the knife further across my skin. A sharp sting follows, and I feel warmth trickle down my neck.
The look on Maverick’s face exudes determination, and despite my debilitating fear, I have to do something. I don’t know what the fuck I’m going to do, but I know I need to draw Samson’s attention away from him. Away from the gun he won’t use without risking me.
I close my eyes—the tears falling relentlessly—and harden my resolve. When I open them again, I catch Maverick’s gaze. The look he gives me is searching, but I don’t have the answer he wants. With the smallest turn of my head, I go for it.
“Samson,” I force out, the swelling of my throat coating my voice in gravel. “Please. Please don’t do this.” I swallow through the pain, then say the words that nearly make my heart stop: “I’ll go with you.”
Ignoring Maverick’s protests, I place my hand on Samson’s arm. His hold on me is so tight, it feels as though my ribs are on fire with just that movement.
I feel the moment Samson’s attention falls to me—it’s in the way his body stiffens against mine, the way his hand holding the knife slackens ever so slightly. His breathing changes, becoming deeper, more controlled.
“Say it again,” he demands. He tilts his head down until his lips feather across my ear. His breath is hot against my skin, making my stomach churn.
“I’ll go with you, Samson,” I repeat, willing myself to force the fear out of my voice. This needs to work.
“We don’t believe you.” He pretends not to hear Maverick’s shouts and reaffirms his grip on the knife. “Why should we believe you?”
“Turn me around,” I whisper. “Turn me around so you can see my eyes.”
“Sunshine.” Maverick sounds as if he’s breaking apart. “You’re not going with him, do you hear? Look at me!”
I’m unprepared for Samson’s strength when he turns me around.
I stumble over my feet and nearly fall into him, a pained sound echoing around us.
The moment I face him, the blade is back on my throat, forcing my chin to tilt up uncomfortably.
His face is inches from mine now, close enough that I can see the madness swimming in his pupils.
Shit. He didn’t drop the knife. I needed him to drop the fucking knife.
“No! You don’t get to look at her,” Samson snarls over my head toward Maverick.
It takes everything I have to withhold a grimace as I raise my hands to Samson’s chest. “He can’t look at me now, see?” I trace small circles with my fingers and stare into his dark eyes. “Just you.” My skin crawls at the contact, but I force myself to keep touching him, to sell the lie.
There’s a struggle behind me. Maverick’s shouting at Spencer and Cruz to let him go. The sounds of the scuffle—boots scraping against the packed earth, muffled curses—tell me they’re physically restraining him.
God, I wish I could see what’s happening. I wish I could tell Maverick that I love him.
“Just us?” Samson looks down at me, his brows knitted together. For a moment, something less feral, something almost human, flickers across his features.
I nod, hiding a wince. “I’ll go with you,” I say again. My voice sounds steadier now, more convincing. I hope.
The knife finally leaves my throat. Just as Samson brushes his lips across mine, I gather every ounce of fucking strength I have and drive my knee between his legs. Right into his fucking dick.
The impact sends a shock up my leg and to my ribs, making me double over, but the satisfaction of his strangled cry makes it worth it.
Fuck. Him.