I wanted to feel reassured, more than almost anything, but what he didn’t say weighed heavily along my subconscious. There was more to Samson than what he was telling me. He admitted as much at the motel.
I turned my gaze to the tops of my legs, eyes fixated on the fine weave of the khaki fabric of my capris. Cliff had to have been wrong. Samson clearly didn’t trust me at all.
“I said I wouldn’t lie to you.” His voice reached my ears, but it wasn’t the words I wanted. “And I’m not.”
He might not be lying, but he certainly wasn’t being honest.
Thirty
The thought of a demon biting at our ankles consumed most of my thoughts for the rest of the day and followed me into Wednesday. How much power did demons have anyway? Were they omnipotent? How would I know a demon when I saw one?
Why was an old, powerful demon named Frank?
I knew that preparing for Rolf’s coming was critical, but the only thing I could dwell on was Samson and his complicated relationship with Frank. Just what the hell was Samson? And how were Samson and Frank the demon connected?
I clicked around on my laptop with one hand and pet Blair’s cat with the other, flipping through pictures of a townhome a couple of blocks down from the Ashby Building to distract myself. After this hit thing was over and done, there was no way I’d be sticking around in the condo. Almost getting killed in a place would do that.
“That’s fucking expensive.” Samson stood behind the couch, leaning over enough for his face to hover next to mine. His cigarette breath billowed into my nose as he continued to scrutinize the Victorian facade of the townhome through squinted eyes.
I leaned away and looked at him. The cat Samson stole, only called Cat for the time being, meowed from her place beside me, and Samson gave her a quick scratch behind the ear.
Watching him with Cat had been fascinating. Samson would hold her, pet her, and seek her out if she disappeared too long. That morning I woke up to find Cat sleeping on top of his head.
His eyes were still narrowed when he returned his gaze to my computer.
“Do you need glasses?” I asked.
He turned his head. “Huh?”
“You’re squinting.” The whites of his eyes were still a little bloody but had exponentially improved. “Have you ever had your eyes checked? If you make a habit of busting all those blood vessels, I can’t imagine it’s good for your eyes.”
Samson stared at me in silence.
Wait—was his face turning red?
“I can see just fine, Fancy Pants.” Samson glowered and backed up from the couch. He was carrying the blade he’d attacked the fae with, flipping it around in his hand as he walked toward the kitchen. Seemed like an excellent way to get a set of stitches. “You got a package, by the way.”
I shut my laptop, tossed it on the couch, and gently removed Cat from her home between my legs and the sofa cushion. Samson wouldn’t like what I ordered, but I couldn’t wait. He must’ve got the box for me because it was already sitting on the kitchen island.
“Why don’t you open it?” I asked, and he narrowed his eyes at me. “You’ve got that knife and all.”
“You’re up to something, and I don’t like it.” Samson eyeballed the box before dragging his fae-killing knife along the tape.
I perched myself across from him, trying my best to hide my glee. He put his knife on the island, less than a foot from my elbow, and I didn’t even squirm. When did I get so comfortable with weapons being in my home?
“You really ordered it.” Samson grimaced at the box once the top popped open.
“Yes, I did.” I walked beside him and nudged him over with my elbow. He didn’t move, so I reached around him and into the box. “You can’t go to the party unless you get a haircut, and I’m not going by myself to get murdered.”
A nice set of clippers would save my life. It came with several guards, and thanks to some online videos, I had a marginal clue about what to do with them. It wouldn’t be the same as a practiced barber, but it would be a world better than Samson using…whatever he used before we met.
He hadn’t moved from beside me, our elbows touching, skin to fabric, but the scowl had disappeared. His face, soft to a point I didn’t think he could even pretend to emote, had turned from obvious annoyance to something else entirely. Pensive, perhaps?
I looked up at him and shook the clipper box in his face. “Ready?”
He stared at me for a moment. “Uh. Sure. Just don’t scalp me.”
This had been something I thought of often, so my preparations went by faster than Samson had probably bargained for. Trash bag on the bathroom floor. Kitchen chair on top of the trash bag. Samson in the chair.
For the first time since knowing him, his eyes were wide.
“Don’t be such a baby.” I pulled the clippers and accessories out of the box and sorted them on the bathroom counter. “I’ve extensively studied several how-to videos and articles the past couple of days. It’ll be fine. Apparently, you can even do this yourself if you know what all the parts are. Consider it a gift.”
Since I spent at least two hundred dollars every time I got my hair done, the idea that Samson could teach himself to cut his own hair made me irrationally jealous.
“My system was fine, Fancy Pants,” he grumbled from the chair, slumped forward with his elbows on his knees, resigned.
“It wasn’t.” I turned from the counter and faced him instead, leaning against the marble enough for it to press into my back. “Can you pretend to be excited?”
Samson answered with a long blink. Fine.
“Lean back,” I said and unfolded one of my towels. He reluctantly sat back in the chair and tilted his chin up to look at me as I draped the towel over his chest, smoothing my hands over it to tuck it around his neck. My finger grazed his throat, right beside his scar.
He jerked away.
“I don’t even have the sharp implements yet,” I teased, although a part of me hurt. More proof he didn’t trust me.
“I know.” If Samson noticed my change in demeanor, he didn’t indicate as much. “Habit.”
Maybe it was only habit. I had a nasty habit of expecting things from people, and maybe this was me falling into that again. Just like I did with my family. My father. Richard. Always expecting things the other person never intended to bestow upon me in the first place. I grabbed a comb and held my hands out. “If you don’t trust me to do this—”
“I do,” Samson said, firm. “I just…forget sometimes.”
I wasn’t entirely sure what that meant, but it did make me feel a bit better. After a questioning look, I put the prongs to his scalp and combed.
His neck was tight. Did he think I would kill him or something?
“I don’t.”
My hand jerked. Telepath. Come on, Tilly. Be aware!
“It’s…” he began, before closing his eyes and gritting his teeth. Another breath. “I don’t know how to say it.”
“Then don’t. It’s okay.” I swept his hair to the side. The unevenness was astounding. “Just relax. I have only ever hurt one person, thing, intentionally before…if that makes you feel any better.”
The warm vanilla from my wax warmer settled in my nose, taking me back to the night of the benefit. Before I knew someone wanted me to die.
There wasn’t any real need to keep brushing, but he wasn’t ready for the cutting yet. His neck and jaw were so tight I wasn’t entirely certain how his muscles didn’t snap clean in half.
“Why are you so nice?” he asked, voice low.
I’d been described a lot of ways in twenty-six years. Pushover. Doormat. Spoiled. Inconvenient—a particular favorite. I stopped using the comb and ran my fingernails over his scalp instead.
“I’m not sure anyone has ever asked me that before,” I said honestly, running my fingertips along the sides of his head, behind his ears, and along his temples. There were more ridges than I noticed the night at the motel. Scars.
&
nbsp; “Well, you are nice.” He rolled his head a little when I moved to the nape of his neck. “And everyone around you totally fucking sucks. Not your secretary. She’s cool. But everyone else sucks. Makes me wonder how you turned out so”—he stopped himself—“like you did.”
I continued to massage his scalp, moving to his temples again. Had he even had a chance to meet many people in my life to come to this conclusion?
“I don’t know. I…was left a lot, I guess. My father only took Hudson with him places. My mother was depressed, and after she died, Gerard spiraled and went to a few centers.” I’d never talked about my life before, and talking about it out loud like this made my stomach sick. “My nanny was very kind. Took me to the park. Brought me presents. She’d go home to Russia once a year, and she’d always bring me back a gift. Made me cakes and soup. Little things. She’s the only person I’ve ever known to love me unquestionably. So I guess one person showed me what it was like to be nice, and I liked how it felt.”
Samson didn’t say anything. Too mushy of a story for a hit man’s heart.
“If we find out one of your brothers bought your contract,” Samson said suddenly, ignoring my heartfelt explanation, “how do you want to handle it?”
The possibility of one of my brothers paying to have me killed had weighed heavily on me since the Saturday meeting. Not only would it bring on a level of pain I wasn’t sure I could handle, but it also prompted the question of what to do with them after we had proof. I didn’t want them to die. I didn’t want Samson to kill them.
The buyer being one of my brothers didn’t make much sense though. Hudson had been almost guaranteed to inherit the company until Saturday, and Gerard hated our father so much I wasn’t sure he actually signed for the shares and accepted his new role yet. And what would killing me have achieved for them? More shares? More money when they already had millions? Maybe it was naïve, but killing someone for money when you already had it didn’t make much sense.
“I’m”—the words got stuck in my throat—“not sure.”
Samson’s way of handling it would involve a bullet between the eyes of the sibling responsible. No need to ask him. But would I be able to live with myself afterward? Would I be able to live with myself knowing I ordered my hired gun to kill someone in my family?
Rich men didn’t go to jail often. They had too much power and money to stay behind bars long. My father wouldn’t allow either of his sons to be jailed for company optics alone, and thanks to my desire for secrecy and the nature of the hit men involved, there wouldn’t be many ways to prove what was happening.
“The contract won’t disappear unless you or the buyer are dead.” Samson sat up in the chair and pulled away from my hands. “Don’t forget that.”
I wouldn’t, but it didn’t make the decision easy.
“Now cut my hair.” Samson leaned back in the chair again and sighed. I wished I possessed the same level of nonchalance about this killing business as he did. “And don’t make me look stupid.”
Thirty-One
I slid into a pair of shorts and a T-shirt with all the enthusiasm of a sloth. Samson had told me to get dressed for a workout. While I didn’t think he meant a workout in the traditional sense, I appreciated the distraction. My obsessing and tendency to catastrophize was getting the better of me. He probably saw it while I massaged his head.
What would I do if one of my brothers wanted me dead? The question lurked behind me like a specter, breathing on my neck at all hours of the day.
The worry exponentially multiplied the second I walked into my living room. My pair of couches had been pushed almost to the walls, and the coffee table was pretty much in my kitchen. The only things that remained where I’d had them were my rugs and entertainment center.
“I’m afraid to ask,” I said with my hands on my hips.
Samson, however, didn’t look the least bit sorry. His hair, now even and smooth, already had finger tracks running through it. While not perfect—his neck was a little uneven—it was a drastic improvement to his prior hack job.
“I’m going to tell you anyway, so you might as well get over it now.” Samson paused only to pet Cat as she rubbed against his ankles. The feline then jumped on the entertainment center and curled up beside the television to watch us do…whatever we were about to do.
“Fine. I’m over it. What did you do to my living room?”
Samson motioned to the furniture-free expanse. “I’m going to teach you some self-defense maneuvers. You’re worrying too much, and it’s getting on my nerves.”
I took a deep breath and forced myself forward to join him in the living area. Self-defense? Me? He expected me to fight for myself?
My lips puckered. What was I paying him for then?
Samson stood in front of me, shirtsleeves rolled up to expose his forearms. For any other person, such a thing would be exceptionally trivial. But considering he’d been buried under several layers of fabric when we met, seeing this did something funny to my stomach. He took a few steps closer, an arm’s length away now.
“If you’re being attacked by someone, they’ll likely be bigger, stronger, and male, so don’t be stupid,” Samson said and poked me in the forehead. My head bobbed, and I took a step backward. Guess we were getting right to it then. “The head, for obvious reasons, is the best target most of the time. But you’re too weak and not practiced enough for me to recommend that as your first choice.”
I crossed my arms. “Thanks a whole lot—”
“You should know by now that I’m not in the business of sugarcoating.” Samson’s lips curled. “I am in the business of bodily harm, so take notes, missy.”
“Missy?”
He lifted one of his hands and pointed to his eyes. “If you can manage to get close to the face at all, you can try to ram your fingers in their eye sockets.”
I grimaced.
“A punch to the throat will choke him for a bit and, if you’re lucky, present a wonderful opportunity for the eye gouge.” Samson held up his hands and framed the sides of my face, hovering about an inch away from my skin. He wiggled his thumbs around my nose. “Just get these bad boys and ram ’em on in there. Right in the corners.”
“That’s so…awful.”
Samson shrugged. “If it’s a dude, a kick to the junk will definitely get you some time. That shit isn’t exaggerated in movies.”
This was all too graphic. Too much. Too violent.
“Isn’t this”—I motioned between us with my hand—“what I’m paying you for? So I won’t have to do this?”
“For now.” Samson huffed. “I won’t always be around though.”
My heart sank into my stomach. I won’t always be around though.
As ridiculous as it sounded, I hadn’t given much thought to what my life would look like if we figured out who bought my contract. If we found them, and killed them, I could presumably go on living as I had for the past twenty-six years. Time in blissful ignorance. Time…alone.
As terrifying as our time together had been, Samson had grown on me. He had a bad mouth, but there was something endearing in his unabashed honesty. In a world swimming with liars and cheats, knowing I had someone genuine around was an astounding comfort.
But he would leave. He’d said so from the moment we met. He had to decapitate his demon boss, and God willing, that wouldn’t be done here.
“All right.” He held up his hands. “Hit me.”
My slip into worry abruptly ended. “Excuse me?”
“Get your tiny hands over here, and try to punch me in the face.”
He wanted me to hit him? In the face?
The dryness of my throat had nothing to do with hydration. I’d just polished off a water bottle. “What if I don’t want to?”
“Get over it.” Samson took a step closer. Then another. “Hit me, Fancy Pants.”
I bunched up my hands. My breaths turned fast. Panicked. I didn’t want to hit him. At all.
“Are you go
ing to make things easier for Rolf?” He sighed, hands still up. “Even after this is over, you need to know some sort of self-defense.”
Inside my heart of hearts, I knew he was right. Walking around a weak, defenseless target didn’t make any sense. The situation with Rolf notwithstanding, knowing basic maneuvers of escape would be useful. If—when—Samson decided to leave, it would just be me again. Matilda Ashby: gullible doormat wearing diamonds with a weak constitution for violence. A thief’s delight.
The party was in three days. As far as we could estimate, Rolf wouldn’t expect Samson at the party. We had a real opportunity to throw the fae off guard. What a better way to continue the trend then to learn some means of defending myself?
I bunched my hands into fists and threw a punch.
It was two in the morning before I finally landed a hit. Six hours. It took six hours before I made contact, and even then, I was pretty sure he let me hit him on purpose.
“Hey.” Samson rubbed his jaw, hiding the beginnings of a smirk with his fingers. “Look at you. You did it.”
My cheeks burned, but thankfully they were already red. The air conditioner was doing a terrible job of keeping up with my temperature requirements. “Are you all right?”
He made a face. “Don’t ever apologize to someone attacking you.”
“You weren’t really attacking me though.” I put my hands on my hips and heaved deep breaths. “You were teaching me.”
“I don’t want you to get in the habit,” he said pointedly. “You’re too nice. People can, and will, use it against you. Especially if the person attacking you knows you.”
The person who bought my contract was looking to be either Gerard or Blair…or maybe even Hudson. It would behoove me to listen to Samson this once. My chest ached from exhaustion, but the dip of my heart managed to make itself known regardless.
Could I fight Blair? Could I fight my brothers with intent to do them harm?
Samson’s question from that morning hit me all over again: If we find out one of your brothers bought your contract, how do you want to handle it?
The Family Cross Page 20
