Chapter 6 #2
Now the desk holds Edgar's cigars. A crystal ashtray sits where the peppermint jar used to be. Stacks of paperwork replace the crossword books. The leather chair by the window has been swapped for something newer, stiffer.
But the bones of this room hold my memories.
And the safe.
I cross to the mahogany wainscoting on the far wall. My fingers find the seam without searching. The panel clicks open under the pressure of my thumb against the hidden latch, smooth and silent, the mechanism my father installed and Edgar never discovered.
The safe door gleams dull silver in the lamplight. I press my fingertips to the dial.
My mother's birthday. Month. Day. Year. The numbers turn under my touch and the lock gives with a soft, heavy click that reverberates through my sternum.
I pull the door open.
The gun sits on a velvet interior, matte black and polished. A limited edition Beretta my father purchased at auction years ago. One of twelve ever made. The same model documented in the police report as the weapon that killed Vincent Ashford. The weapon the police never recovered.
My pulse pounds so hard I can barely hear my surroundings. Each breath comes shallow and fast, pulling the stale air of the study into lungs that refuse to expand all the way. I reach for the gun. My fingers brush the cool metal and a shudder rolls through me from wrist to shoulder.
Finally.
"There you are. Like an angel appearing out of thin air."
I spin. My back presses flat against the open safe, one hand braced on the panel, the other hovering at my side.
Samuel’s large body fills every inch of the doorway. Lamplight catches one side of his face. Deep shadow swallows the other half. He leans his heavy weight against the wood frame, arms crossed, cigar pinched between two scarred fingers.
My heart slams against my ribs. Once. Twice. Hard enough to bruise.
"I wondered where you ran off to." His voice is low, controlled, and the rough edge of it drags over my skin with a familiarity my body has not forgotten. His dark eyes move from my face down the length of my body. "I never figured it would be to the arms of a friend."
Ouch. And also what the fuck?
Judgment threads through the mistaken observation.
I straighten my spine when he tosses in another jab for good measure.
"I didn't know you were a thief, too."
“Fuck you, Samuel. You don’t know a damn thing you’re talking about.”
His gaze is locked on my midsection. On the curve of my belly pressing against the halter top where the apron has shifted. I don't realize my hand has moved to rest over my baby until his eyes follow the motion and stop cold.
The silence in the room is deafening.
He pushes off the doorframe and crosses the study in three unhurried strides.
The cigar lands in the crystal tray on my father's desk with a quiet thud, and he turns to face me without breaking eye contact.
The warm glow from the desk lamp traces the hard edges of his jaw, the ink climbing his throat.
His beard is thicker than I remember. Darker, with more silver woven through the trim. His hair hangs loose tonight, dark waves brushing past his shoulders. I force my eyes off the familiar strands and find the fire burning in his stare.
For a long breath, neither of us speaks. The lamp hums. The old radiator ticks behind the wall. All those months of silence stretch between us, heavy with everything I left unsaid the night I walked into that elevator and never came back.
"You remember me." It isn't a question. His voice drops low, rough at the edges, and the sound of it hits a nerve I've spent months trying to kill.
"How can I forget?" The truth comes easily. My voice is steady but my nerves are wrecked.
He takes another step. Close enough now that his warmth reaches me across the shrinking space. Close enough that his scent wraps around my senses.
"You promised you were only going to see Lavender and then return to me." His jaw tightens. A muscle flexes beneath the trimmed beard. "I've been waiting."
The ache in his voice stabs through my heart and twists.
I turn back to the safe and punch in the code again even though the door is already open.
My fingers need something to do. My brain needs to be anywhere but here, standing three feet from the only man who has ever made my body override my brain.
"You don't understand what is going on here." I keep my voice flat and void of the pain and longing I feel soul-deep. "Just stay out of my way, Samuel."
His head tilts a fraction to the side, those dark eyes narrowing as he studies me. One hand reaches out. Scarred knuckles curl around the back of the desk chair, his grip tightening until the leather creaks under the pressure.
“I've waited too long for this moment.” He pitches the words so low and rough they pull me around to face him.
“Waited?”
He waited for me? As in he thought I would come back?
Samuel releases a growl edged with a darkness that raises the fine hairs on my arms. "You should have never run, princess."
He releases the chair and takes a step forward, closing the gap between us until I can count the silver threads in his beard.
Princess.
My heart stutters. The word punches through every wall I've constructed in the months of survival and sleepless nights spent building a case against the people who destroyed my family.
My throat burns. Tears sting behind my eyes and I crush them, grinding them into nothing the way I've trained myself to do.
I cannot cry. Not here. Not in front of him. Not when the gun is three inches from my fingers and the mission is everything.
"You can't have me." I force the words out smooth and steady. "I belong to someone else."
The lie leaves my tongue smooth and rehearsed. He goes still behind me. His gaze burns into my back, searing over the wig, the ridiculous halter top, the fishnet stockings and the short skirt that barely covers what's his.
What's his? Where did that come from?
I shake my head. Focus.
I peer up at Samuel and press the tears from my eyes with the back of my hand before they can fall. Clouds of anger roll over his expression, tightening his brow, hardening the lines of his mouth. His gaze drops to my belly again, and this time his hand follows.
Warm, callused fingers spread over the curve of my bump. Gentle. Possessive. The pad of his thumb traces a slow arc across the swell where his child is growing, and the touch sends a tremor through my body so deep my knees threaten to buckle.
His lips curve into a smile. Wicked, knowing, and layered with raw hunger.
"Then I'll steal you both."
His hand stays on my belly, claiming what I tried to hide.
Behind me, the safe door hangs open, light glossing the matte finish of the gun I came here to take. And the man I ran from five months ago stands between me and everything I came to do.