Chapter 7
SAMUEL
This is not how tonight was supposed to go.
I came here for a signature on a piece of paper. Walk in, stroke a fragile ego, get five names on a contract and leave before anyone draws a weapon. Clean. Simple. A transaction I've run a thousand times without breaking a sweat.
Instead, my palm cups the swell of her belly and warmth bleeds through the thin fabric into my skin. A flutter pushes back against my hand. Small. Insistent. The contract downstairs, Edgar's signature, the peace agreement, none of it matters anymore.
Cinder's breath comes fast and shallow, her chest rising in quick pulls that lift the fabric of the halter top with each inhale.
Her pale blue eyes are wide, the silver sheen in them catching the lamplight as she stares up at me with an expression torn between relief and fury.
The dark wig has shifted, exposing a sliver of blonde near her hairline.
She smells different than I remember. The warm vanilla is buried under industrial kitchen soap and cheap perfume that is not hers.
But the heat of her skin under my hand is exactly the same. So is the tremor that rolls through her body when I press closer.
Her gaze breaks from mine and darts to the safe behind her. The gun gleams on its velvet interior. The matte black finish absorbs the lamplight rather than reflecting it, and her fingers twitch toward the weapon.
"I need what's in that safe, Samuel."
"You need to get out of this house."
"You don't understand." She shifts her weight toward the open panel, her hand reaching for the gun. "That weapon is the reason I'm here tonight. It's evidence."
"Evidence of what?"
"My father's murder."
The words hit low and sharp. I process them against everything I know about Vincent Ashford's death. Random mugging. Wrong side of town. Case closed.
Except his daughter is standing in a dead man's study dressed as a caterer, five months pregnant, pulling a gun from a hidden safe. Nothing about this is random.
Her fingers close around the grip and she pulls the Beretta free. The weight of it settles in her hand and her shoulders drop a fraction, the relief visible in the way her spine loosens.
"Now we can go."
I hook an arm under her knees and lift.
"Samuel, I can walk."
"You can walk when we're outside. Of this cursed place." I carry her toward the study door, away from the open safe and whatever else this house is hiding. "I don't know the full picture of what the fuck is going on here, but I aim to find out."
She stops fighting me. Goes rigid in my arms instead, which is worse. I've carried enough stubborn women to know the difference between giving up and plotting. She's plotting. The Beretta rests against her belly, her finger straight along the frame.
Furious eyes meet mine briefly. "This place isn’t cursed. This is my father's house. The only curse it has is the people living in it."
I stop at the top of the staircase. The curved banister stretches down into the grand foyer below, the walnut wood polished to a dark sheen by decades of hands gripping the rail. My grip on her tightens.
“You’re Vincent Ashford’s daughter.”
I look down at her. She stares back, jaw tight, the muscle in her cheek flexing beneath the ridiculous dark wig.
"You don't believe me?"
"I have trust issues when it comes to vanishing princesses. But on this, yes."
Her lashes drop for a half second before her chin lifts higher. Fire replaces the flicker of guilt I caught in her expression.
"I promised because I meant it. I wanted to come back.” She pauses and bites at her inner lip. “But I couldn’t."
"We’ll circle back to that later." I hold her gaze a beat longer than I should. Questions can wait. Getting her out of this house cannot.
We make it four steps from the bottom before heavy footsteps pound across the foyer's hardwood.
Edgar rounds the corner from the hallway with the stride of an owner surveying his kingdom, bourbon in hand, his unbuttoned collar revealing a thick gold chain he wears against sun-starved skin.
His eyes sweep from my face to Cinder in my arms to the Beretta in her grip.
Recognition flashes over his expression. He knows that gun.
He closes the distance in three steps and grabs Cinder by the wrist. Not the empty one.
The one holding the weapon. He yanks hard enough to wrench her from my arms and her body pitches forward.
Her free hand slaps against the walnut banister and her fingers curl tight around the smooth wood, stopping herself an inch before her face hits the staircase.
The Beretta tears loose from her grip on the twist. It hits the foyer floor with a heavy crack, bounces once against the hardwood, and skitters across the polished surface to disappear under the chest of drawers pressed against the far wall.
Cinder's eyes track the gun's path. Her whole body jerks toward the furniture.
"No." The word rips from her throat, raw and guttural.
Edgar is too drunk or focused on me to notice.
"If you wanted a quick fuck, why didn't you bring a plus one?" Edgar straightens his cuffs and takes a sip of bourbon. "It's not nice to fuck your friend's hired help."
Edgar's voice is casual. Conversational. He sips on his bourbon while Cinder hauls herself upright on the banister, knuckles white against the dark wood.
The wig catches on the railing's edge and peels back. Pale blonde hair spills free, bright under the foyer light.
Edgar's bourbon stops halfway to his lips. His eyes lock onto the blonde hair, the face beneath the cheap wig, and the casual arrogance drains from his expression. What replaces it is colder. Harder.
"Cinder." Her name leaves his mouth like a curse. His jaw works side to side, the muscles in his neck pulling taut.
He sets the bourbon on the banister with deliberate care, the crystal clicking against the walnut. His gaze follows hers to the Beretta under the chest of drawers.
“You sneaky little bitch." His eyes snap back to her face. He grabs the glass again, and I strike.
I grab Edgar by the throat.
My fingers close around his windpipe and I compress until the bourbon glass slips from his hand and shatters against the hardwood.
Crystal shards scatter across the floor and the sharp smell of alcohol cuts through the cigar smoke.
His face goes from pale to crimson in three seconds.
His feet scrabble against the floor, dress shoes sliding on wet wood and broken glass.
"Apologize to the lady."
His lips peel back. Spit hits my wrist. Veins bulge at his temples and the red deepens to purple along his cheekbones.
"Never." The word grinds out between compressed vocal cords. "She's as filthy and useless as her father." His bloodshot eyes swing to Cinder who has come to stand at my side. "Whores like her belong in the kitchen or dead like her father. I'll deal with you in a minute."
Cinder’s spine straightens. She yanks the wig fully off and tosses it aside. Blue fire blazes in those pale eyes, the silver sheen burning hot under the light.
"Fuck. You. Edgar."
She moves faster than I can track.
One second she is behind me. The next, the weight of my Glock is gone from my shoulder holster and she presses the muzzle against Edgar's forehead. Her thumb cocks the hammer and the click echoes through the foyer.
Fuck.
This is going to get messy.
Cinder's finger rests alongside the trigger guard. Not on the trigger. Beside it. The discipline of that placement sends a cold thread through the heat of my fury. She knows her way around a firearm. Her arm is steady. Her breathing is controlled.
She’s practiced for this moment.
An unspoken exchange passes between her and Edgar. His bloodshot eyes lock onto hers and for three seconds, something raw and personal crackles in the air between them. History. Hatred.
Edgar's upper lip curls and Cinder's nostrils flare.
I release Edgar's throat and drive my fist into his face.
Bone meets bone. The impact travels up my arm and the crunch of cartilage under my fist is loud, wet, satisfying.
Edgar's head snaps sideways. Blood sprays from his nose across the hardwood in a fine arc and his knees buckle.
He grabs the banister to keep himself upright, smearing red across the wooden grain.
My left hand reaches back, finds my Glock in Cinder's grip, and pulls it free. I uncock the hammer and shove it back into my shoulder holster, snapping the strap closed.
"We will talk about touching another person's gun later." I keep my eyes on Edgar. "And I mean it."
Cinder's chin jerks up but she says nothing. Smart woman. This is not the time.
Edgar spits blood onto the floor. It pools in the grout between the hardwood planks. He presses the back of his hand to his crushed nose and the sound that leaves his throat is half groan, half growl. His eyes are watering and his jaw hangs slack on the left side where my fist landed.
I step toward him. He stumbles back and his heel catches on a shard of crystal. He goes down on one knee.
Good. He can stay there.
"Your first mistake was touching her." I bury my fist into the bridge of his already broken nose. Fresh blood erupts between his fingers when his hands fly to his face. Cartilage folds under my knuckles and the wet grind of it vibrates through my wrist.
"Your second was touching the woman I intend to marry."
His head whips to the right on the next punch. A tooth skips across the hardwood, white against the dark grain. Blood runs from the split in his lower lip and drips off his chin in thick, slow drops. The foyer smells of bourbon, blood, and the bitter film of cigar smoke.
"And your third..."
Movement catches my peripheral vision. The pocket doors to the poker room slide open without a sound.
Oliver steps out first, charcoal eyes flat, one hand already inside his jacket. Bastian follows, his tie loosened and his gold wedding band catching the chandelier light. His grin spreads wide and sharp. He always loves a brawl.
Valerian fills the doorframe last, an unlit cigar pinched between two fingers, the scarred landscape of his jaw set tight. Three seconds of silence. Their eyes sweep the scene. Cinder at my side. Edgar on his knees, bleeding from the face. Me standing over him with blood on my knuckles.
All three arm themselves. Jackets shift. Metal clears leather. Three clicks in quick succession.
"I see you've been up to no good." Bastian rolls his sleeves back and plants his feet.
The poker room door swings wider behind them. One of Edgar's bodyguards bursts through with his weapon drawn and sweeping the foyer. Before the barrel finds a target, Valerian jams his gun against the man's temple. The bodyguard freezes.
Valerian holds the weapon steady with his right hand.
With his left, he fishes a lighter from his breast pocket, flicks the flame to life, and brings it to the end of his unlit cigar.
He draws slow, turning the tip until a bright cherry burns at the end.
Smoke swirls around his head and the low light turns the haze amber, framing him like a goddamn oil painting.
The fucker loves to be dramatic.
I turn back to Edgar. He is on both knees now, his hands cupped under his chin to catch the blood still pouring from his ruined nose. His eyes dart between my friends and the fear in them is the most honest expression I've seen on his face all night.
"No good at all, my friend. But it’s a bit of a long story. But I think it’s safe to say we are not getting a peace contract signed tonight." I roll my shoulders once and crack my neck. "One last thing before we go."
I lower myself to Edgar’s level. Blood drips between his fingers to drive on the floor. His breathing is ragged, wet, each inhale pulling through the mess I made of his nasal cavity.
"And your third mistake was calling her a whore."
I drive my fist into the side of his jaw. The joint pops and his head rotates on impact, a spray of blood and saliva arcing through the chandelier light. His body crumples sideways onto the floor and the sound of his weight hitting the floor is dull and final. He groans and curls onto his side.
From the floor, Edgar lifts his head. His swollen eyes find Oliver, Bastian, Valerian. Their expressions are blank. Carved from granite and offering him nothing.
"Aren't you going to do something?" The bellow comes out garbled through blood and a dislocated jaw. He searches each of their faces for an ally and finds none.
I straighten. Flex my fingers. The knuckles sting and the ridged scar tissue across them has split in two places. Fresh blood mixes with Edgar's. I wipe my hand against my thigh and turn toward Cinder.
She stands with one hand still gripping the banister. Her pale blonde hair hangs loose over one shoulder. The halter top pulls against her belly and the curve of my child presses against the dark fabric.
The brightness in her eyes has dulled. Whatever fire burned in them when she shoved my gun into Edgar's forehead is gone. What replaces it is heavy and flat, a dullness behind her lashes that crushes the air from my lungs.
I pull her to my side. She comes without fighting me, her smaller frame fitting against my ribs as if five months never passed between us. Her pulse vibrates against my forearm.
The tactical calculation runs in three seconds flat.
Unless I want a war to break out in this mansion and the evening to end with bodies buried in the garden out back, I need to leave before bullets start flying.
A few punches are easily smoothed with a couple million in restitution.
Nobody likes writing the check, but everyone prefers it to digging graves.
If someone gets shot, then that is a different story.
Without this alliance, territory wars eat through our territories. It’s a bunch of fucking dick measuring but the death tolls will be real. And the woman pressed against my side becomes the first target.
I turn us toward the front door.
“Wait.” Cinder breaks from my side before I make it two steps. She drops to her knees beside the chest of drawers, reaches underneath, and comes back up with the Beretta in her fist.
"Let's go.” I tuck her to my side.
Holding her close, I pause at Edgar’s side. “You'll receive an apology tomorrow after I speak with my accountant. I think it's safe to say two million should do it since only bones were broken and I haven't killed anyone on your property."
Edgar drags himself upright on the banister. He spits a mouthful of blood onto the floor and braces his weight against the railing. His ruined face twists into a sinister scowl.
"You can keep your money." His voice scrapes through the foyer, wet and mangled. "But you won't leave here with my stepdaughter." His swollen lips pull back over blood-stained teeth. "Her blood is mine."
I tighten my arm around Cinder and face Edgar Silvani, my vision an ocean of red.