Total pages in book: 71
Estimated words: 77171 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 386(@200wpm)___ 309(@250wpm)___ 257(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77171 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 386(@200wpm)___ 309(@250wpm)___ 257(@300wpm)
I move back toward the desk because if I don’t put something solid between us, I may hit him again.
“She’s asking the wrong questions,” he says.
“How do you know what she’s asking?”
“I know what matters.”
I rub at my forehead. “That isn’t an answer.”
“It’s enough of one.”
I brace my hands on the desk and lean forward. “Then give me the right question.”
Nathaniel hesitates just long enough for me to notice it. Then, “Who was supposed to be there?”
Because that is the question.
The one Delaney is circling. The one I keep stepping around.
Who was supposed to be there?
Not Halstead.
“You’re done here,” I say.
He nods. “For now.” At the door, he pauses. “Try not to confuse craving with connection, Samson.” Then he leaves.
The glass on the sideboard is in my hand before I quite register reaching for it. I hurl it across the room. It shatters against the wall.
For one savage second, the sound helps.
Then it doesn’t. The office falls silent again except for my breathing.
Broken glass. Ruined whiskey.
A child in a gleaming kitchen.
A mother telling me power is choice.
A father teaching me to hit first.
A brother with blood at the corner of his mouth saying weakness like he enjoys it.
And somewhere under all of it, quieter but worse…
My youngest brother. Cain, who learned by watching, observing, all with a chilling look on his face.
I stare at the shattered tumbler as something cold begins to work its way under my skin.
Not memory.
More like recognition.
The one Arthur Vexley built into me with his hands and my mother, Elena, tried to soften with hers.
The one Cain always seemed to understand without ever stepping into the center of it himself.
I stiffen.
Delaney walked into my world today and left with more than she should have.
Not answers.
Not proof.
Something else.
A crack.
And now that I can see it, I can’t stop seeing it.
I didn’t restrain myself with her.
Worse?
I didn’t want to.
That should make the next move obvious.
Cut her off. Shut the door before she steps farther inside.
Instead, all I can think about is the look on her face when she said it.
You didn’t expect him.
She was right.
If she’s right about that, then the rest is coming.
And that, right there, is where this stops being desire and starts becoming danger.
26
DELANEY
I step out of the club and walk toward the curb to grab a cab. That’s the plan. Go home. Sleep. Reset.
It doesn’t happen.
Because he’s still on me.
The imprint of him is everywhere. My wrist tingles where his fingers closed around it, like the pressure never fully released. My skin is too warm, too aware, as if my body hasn’t realized the moment is over.
His mouth at my ear.
Not quite a kiss. Not quite restraint.
The threat of both.
Then his teeth biting into my flesh.
My breath catches again, a delayed reaction I can’t quite control. A slow heat coils low in my belly, tightening instead of fading. I should be past this already.
I’m not.
For a second—just a second—I let myself feel it. The way I leaned into him. The way I didn’t pull back. The way I would have let it go further.
He’s not the problem.
I am.
I can’t let this be about Samson Vexley. I have to stay focused.
You didn’t expect him.
That’s the thought that cuts through everything else, clean and sharp enough to matter.
He didn’t deny it. Not the way a man like him would.
My feet keep moving.
I don’t slow down. Don’t stop. The rhythm of my steps stays steady, as if my body is handling the mechanics while my mind works through the rest.
This didn’t start with Samson Vexley, of course. It didn’t even begin with Halstead.
It started with a file.
Not the marina. Not at first.
A contractor. A discreet contractor. The kind that installs systems no one talks about and bills through channels that don’t quite line up if you look closely enough. I’d been following them for months. Looking at the quiet jobs, the private clients, work that didn’t show up where it should.
I turn the corner without thinking. There are fewer people. Less light. I register it somewhere in the background, but it doesn’t pull me out of my thoughts.
One client surfaced more than once. That’s when I started pulling harder, which led me to the marina.
And to Halstead.
I slow slightly.
If something was already happening, then Halstead didn’t start it.
I take another step.
Then another.
The city is quieter here, but I’m not tracking it consciously. My focus has narrowed, sharpened.
If he didn’t start it, then he didn’t belong there.
And if he didn’t belong there…
Then someone else did.
And the Vexleys know who.
My chest tightens like I’ve stepped too close to something I shouldn’t be able to see.
Not just a mistake.
Not just bad timing.
Something placed.
Something—
A scream rips from my throat as something catches my wrist.
For a second, my brain doesn’t register what’s happening—just the force, the sudden loss of balance as I’m yanked sideways, my heel catching on uneven pavement.