Chapter 14
SAMUEL
Acrunch of gravel pulls me from the dark.
I am already dressed. Already standing in the shadows of the corridor between the master suite and the living room, my Glock warm against my ribs from two hours of waiting in the shadows.
The second Cinder's breathing deepened and her fingers stilled against my chest, I eased out from under her.
She murmured my name in her sleep and rolled into the warm indent my body left behind.
I covered her with the heavy sheet, pressed my mouth to her temple, and walked away from the only peace I've ever known.
I dress quickly and ease through the house. Cold air presses against my senses, sharp enough to keep me alert.
My phone glows from the inside pocket of my jacket. I pull it out. The screen is dimmed to near nothing, just enough to read the single word on the display.
Valerian: Set.
I pocket the phone and exhale slowly through my nose.
The side gate on the east perimeter is unlocked.
Valerian loosened the bolt two hours ago, leaving the iron open a crack.
Barely wide enough for a man to squeeze through if he was looking for entry.
If he was desperate. If he was stupid enough to walk into a trap that's been waiting for him all night.
Edgar is all three.
I know his playbook because men like Edgar only have one. He’s a coward so he like others doing his dirty work.
He will send hired men first, who are nothing more than expendable bodies he paid for with Cinder's father's money. He'll hang back counting gunshots and wait until the noise stops before he steps foot on my property.
He thinks he is smarter than everyone. He has never been in a room with me.
Shadows shift just beyond the hedges. A figure breaks from the hedgerow near the east fence, upright for half a second, long enough for the landscape light to catch the ridged scar tissue running from jaw to collar.
Valerian. He holds my gaze across forty yards of darkness, lifts two fingers, and dissolves back into the shadow.
Oliver is near the front gate. I can't see him, but I don't need to. Thirty years of operating beside a man teaches you to track him by instinct. Oliver's silence is a weapon as sharp as anything in his holster.
Bastian is on the west side. He always picks the entry point closest to the fight, and the service entrance off the kitchen is the only door on that flank.
I check the bedroom door. Closed. Cinder is behind it and safe. When this is all over, I’ll enjoy waking her with the good news that she and our baby are safe.
Everything I love in this world is behind that door.
I turn my back to it and face the dark.
The first breach comes at 4:17 a.m.
Gravel shifts near the east gate. I track the sound by its rhythm, multiple boots, unevenly spaced, men moving fast without discipline. Sorry fuckers. It’s almost a shame to have to end their lives.
They bunch at the opening and push through one after another, bodies scraping the iron.
My enforcers are positioned along the fence in a staggered line. I gave them one order—let the first wave through. Let them commit. Then cut them off from retreat.
Three men clear the gate. The first carries a shotgun at his hip. The second holds a compact submachine gun with both hands, sweeping left. What the actual fuck. What a fucking idiot.
The third brings up the rear with a pistol drawn. The smartest of the three.
Also the unluckiest.
My lead enforcer drops the third man before his boot finds solid ground on the other side of the fence.
The suppressed round punches through the night with a muted crack that barely registers above the hum of the climate system through the open vent.
The man folds sideways into the iron gate and his pistol clatters against the stone path.
The other two spin toward the sound. My second enforcer takes the one with the submachine gun. Center mass. The body hits the gravel and the weapon thuds to the ground with him.
What a pitiful fool.
The shotgunner fires blind. The blast tears through a section of hedgerow and scatters green across the path.
Before he can pump the next shell, Valerian materializes behind him.
One scarred hand clamps over the barrel, wrenching it skyward, and the other drives a fist into the base of the man's skull. The enforcer crumples.
Then there’s nothing but silence.
I count the seconds. Twelve pass before the second wave pushes through the gate. Five more men. Heavier armed. They fan out along the tree line with their weapons up and scanning.
Oliver opens on the far right. Two quick shots with a suppressor.
Bastian comes from the west at a dead sprint and puts two rounds into the enforcer nearest the service entrance before the man can turn his gun.
The muzzle flash lights Bastian's grin for a split second and then everyone settles into darkness.
Valerian and my enforcers end the remaining three. Brief. Controlled. Professional.
Bodies litter the garden path. The iron gate hangs open, gravel churned and dark with blood.
Edgar won’t be able to wait for long. He’s too impatient. So I wait. Twenty years of this, and the quiet after violence still tastes like copper and cold air.
Boots crunch on the gravel near the front entrance. This time it’s a single set. Heavy. Unhurried. Edgar.
I holster my Glock and crack my knuckles. The ridged scar tissue pulls tight across the joints and I love the feel of the pain that shoots up my wrists. It lets me know I’m alive.
"I see you and your henchmen of villains are dropping bodies just like the old days."
Edgar's voice carries through the open door of the living room. He steps through, brushing garden debris from his overcoat.
"Edgar." I tuck away the satisfaction pulling at my mouth and turn to face him.
The living room stretches between us, cold glass and concrete and the faint silver glow of the garden pressing through the windows. His overcoat hangs open. No weapon visible. His fingers flex at his sides, eyes locked on mine, measuring distance.
"Where's my stepdaughter, Samuel? And where's the child she's carrying? That child belongs to me."
My blood runs white-hot. Every muscle along my spine pulls taut and the tendons in my neck stand rigid. I roll my shoulders once.
"You'll never put your hands on either of them."
He lunges.
Edgar covers the ten feet faster than a man his age should.
His fist catches the edge of my jaw and my head snaps sideways.
The impact radiates through my molars and the taste of blood floods my tongue.
He is stronger than I gave him credit for, the punch carrying real weight behind it, and my respect for his physical ability notches up even as my hatred for him deepens.
I absorb the hit and drive forward, dropping my shoulder into his sternum. The collision sends us both into the glass wall. The pane shudders but holds. Edgar's back slams against the surface and the breath leaves his lungs in a grunt that doubles him over.
I bring my knee up and drive all my force into his ribs. Bone flexes under the strike and he snarls, grabbing the collar of my shirt and headbutting me across the bridge of my nose.
White light explodes behind my eyes. Blood pours from my nostrils and runs hot over my lips, dripping onto the concrete between us.
He uses the distraction to drive his elbow into my throat. The cartilage compresses and my airway narrows to a whistle. I choke, stagger back, and he follows with a right hook aimed at my temple.
I catch his fist. My scarred fingers close around his knuckles and I wrench sideways, torquing his wrist until the joint pops.
He roars. His free hand scrabbles at my face, fingers clawing for my eyes.
I lean away from the gouge, pull his arm across my body, and slam my elbow down into the crook of his hyperextended joint.
The crack of his arm breaking is wet and final.
Edgar screams. The sound bounces off the concrete and glass and fills the cold room.
He drops to one knee, his broken arm hanging at a wrong angle, his face gray with shock.
I grab a fistful of his hair and yank his head back.
My forearm slides under his chin and locks against his throat.
I tighten until his windpipe compresses and his breathing turns to a high, thin wheeze.
His good hand slaps at my arm. His legs kick against the concrete. Spit bubbles at the corner of his mouth.
I could end him now, but I lean close to his ear. "You killed a good man. A man who called you friend. A man who will never walk his daughter down the aisle because of you."
I adjust my grip. One quick rotation of my forearm and his neck will snap.
"Let him go, you animal."
The voice comes from the corridor behind me. Female. Steady. Backed by the metallic click of a hammer being pulled back on a revolver.
Francesca steps into the living room, heels clicking against the heated concrete. Edgar's wife. Cinder's stepmother.
She holds the revolver with both hands, barrel aimed at the back of my skull. The muzzle trembles. She has never fired a weapon under pressure.
Good to know.
"You always acted like you were too good for us. Let him go, Samuel."
“You should have stayed in Paris, Francesca." I tighten my grip on Edgar's throat. His wheezing grows thinner. "Let him go? Pull that trigger and find out. I'll snap his neck before I hit the floor.”
The click of the hammer locking into full cock punches through the silence. A small, mechanical sound that grates over the nerve endings and calls death closer.
My muscles coil. My grip tightens on Edgar's throat. I count the seconds by the thud of my own pulse.
A gun goes off.
The concussion fills the living room and the echo slams against the glass walls. My ears ring. Blood mists the air behind me.
But the bullet didn't come from Francesca.
I spin, my arm still locked around Edgar's throat, and find the source.
Cinder stands in the doorway of the corridor. She grips her father's Beretta in both hands. Her arms are extended, locked at the elbows. Her light blue eyes burn white in the dim light, the silver sheen glowing with a fury that stops my breath.
Francesca is on the floor. The revolver has skidded across the concrete, far from her reach. Blood darkens the front of her blouse.
Cinder's hands shake. Her gaze stays pinned on the dead woman who stole her father, her mother, her childhood, her inheritance, and her peace.
“It’s done,” she whispers and the weight of those two words will scar my soul forever.
I finish Edgar. One sharp rotation of my forearm and let him drop to the floor.
Oliver, Bastian, and Valerian pour through the side entrance. Weapons sweep the room, clear the corners. Oliver checks the corridor. Bastian kneels beside Edgar, confirms the obvious, and straightens. Valerian takes Francesca's revolver from the floor, ejects the cylinder, and pockets the rounds.
I cross the room in four strides and reach Cinder.
I ease the Beretta from her fingers. Her grip is locked so tight the tendons in her hands stand white against her skin. I pry each finger loose, one by one, and tuck the gun into my waistband.
Her entire body vibrates against mine when I pull her to my chest. I wrap my arms around her and press my mouth to the top of her head.
Her hands fist in my shirt, pulling at the fabric.
The sound that tears from her throat is not a scream or a sob.
Five months of grief and rage and survival leaving her body in a single, shattered exhale.
Behind us, my friends move with quiet efficiency. Bodies shift across the concrete. Low voices coordinate their final removal. Violence is routine for these men, the cleanup as practiced as the killing.
I tilt Cinder’s face up. Tears streak her cheeks. Her lips tremble and her pupils are blown wide from the adrenaline flooding her system.
"You're okay. You're okay, princess." I brush the tears from her face with my thumbs. "Why did you do that? You never should have dirtied your soul for me."
"I did it for you." Her voice cracks. Her fingers curl against the fabric of my shirt, pressing into the muscle beneath. "For me. And for our baby."
"That was for me to do, Cinder. I would have handled it."
She lifts her chin. Those pale blue eyes, still wet, still shaking, lock onto mine with a steadiness that guts me.
"Not at the expense of dying."
My throat closes. I pull her back against my chest and hold her so tight the air squeezes from between our bodies. The warmth of her seeps into every cold place I carry, filling the void over my heart with a heat that no amount of ink or violence or money ever could.
She saved me. I spent all night orchestrating a trap to keep her safe, and she walked in and saved me.
Pride swells alongside a grief I will carry forever. I wanted to keep her hands clean, to spare her the weight of pulling a trigger on another life. That innocence is gone now, traded for mine, and the cost will haunt me long after this moment fades away.
But she chose it. She chose me. And the woman in my arms is my equal in every way that counts.
"I love you, Samuel." She whispers it into the fabric of my shirt, her lips moving against the thud of my heart.
I press my forehead to hers. My hands cradle her face. Beyond the glass, the first gray light of dawn bleeds along the horizon, pressing the darkness back from the garden. The hedges sharpen into solid green. Stone pathways emerge from the black.
It’s a new day.
"I love you, Cinder. My princess. My wife." I kiss her, soft and warm, tasting her tears. "You will never be alone again. I swear it."
Her fingers find the ring on her hand. The sapphires catch the faint morning light filtering through the glass.
Behind us, Oliver's footsteps cross the concrete. Bastian murmurs instructions to the enforcers who've arrived to assist. Valerian lights a cigar and the cherry flares orange in the corner of my vision, his scarred face unreadable as he stands guard near the door.
My men will clear the bodies before the sun clears the fence line. They'll scrub the blood from the concrete, repair the gate. By morning, this night lives only in our memories.
I hold her tighter. She holds me back.
For the first time since I built this fortress, the walls of my house carry something other than silence. They hold the energy of our love now and forever.
Stealing Cinder was the best decision of my life and I’ll kill anyone who tries to take her from me.