Raising my eyebrows, I look over at Samson. He just smirks and ushers me in. “You’re worth more alive, in case you’re wondering what I’m going to do with you,” he starts, walking with the sort of swagger I’ve only ever seen on one other person—my father. “As the King of Marauders, I’ve publicly declared war on the Elite, and I’ll stop at nothing for my cause. I’d wager that kidnapping the princess of Elias Montcroix just got me a hell of a lot closer to my goals.”
I laugh. “I’m worth nothing,” I spit, glaring at him. “Like I said, I severed my ties to the Elite three years ago.”
Samson halts and takes a step closer. I respond by backing up, but it doesn’t matter. He has me cornered against a pillar. “I think you’re worth more than you’re letting on. Your father loves you. Elite or not, he would do anything to save your life.”
He’s right. That’s why there are probably hundreds of guards scrambling around the city right this very second, looking for me. I pray Godric had the right sense to hide the books before they undoubtedly questioned him. A warm hand lands on my shoulder, and I jump because it’s not Samson’s. I swing around. An older Marauder stands behind me with a pair of handcuffs.
“I want no part as your pawn in this useless game,” I spit in Samson’s direction. The feel of cold metal on my wrists sends a sliver of fear down my spine, but the guard doesn’t move to snap them closed.
“Take her to the basement,” Samson orders, turning and leaving as the guard removes the handcuffs in a huff. I look at him over my shoulder, debating whether or not I should kill him when I get the chance. If I’m going to kill King of Marauders, I might as well kill his guard. King. The leader of my father’s biggest enemy. A war between the two of them might very well end the world.
“Sir,” the guard replies, looking horrified. “Are you sure the basement is the best place for her? Perhaps she would be more comfortable in one of the guest rooms. And don’t even get me started on these.” He dangles the handcuffs and scowls.
Okay, so perhaps I’ll spare his life for that.
“Take her wherever you please, Luciano.” At that, Samson stalks off, his black cape flowing behind him.
“Thank you,” I utter, as Luciano directs me towards a staircase at the back of the warehouse. Luciano nods at the men standing guard at the base of the stairs. God. This place is swarming with guards. I’d never be able to run.
“You’re welcome,” he replies, giving me a warm smile. He’s tall and thin, and he’s wearing leather pants and a matching jacket. Tattoos snake along his hands and up his neck. “Sam can be. . . difficult. . . at times. But please know that his intentions are noble.”
I stop climbing the winding staircase and stare at the man before me. “Noble? He’s holding me for ransom.”
“For now,” Luciano utters. “He looks tough, but he has a soft heart.”
My mind spins as Luciano beckons me down a long, plain hallway made up entirely of concrete, pipes, and vents. I follow him.
“How long does he plan on keeping me? If he’s so noble, why not just let me go?” I whisper, suddenly so tired.
Luciano watches me with curiosity. His eyes are the shade of liquid gold. His white-blond hair is long and pulled into a low ponytail. He leads me into a grandiose bedroom fit for a princess. I frown at the audacity. The concrete walls are a bit cracked, but it’s a complete room nonetheless. No holes. A large bed with a gorgeous, wrought-iron frame stands under a large window with white, gauzy drapes, along with a white wardrobe to my right, a dresser to the left, and a delicate sheepskin rug on the floor. A bathroom sits off to the side, and from here I can see the large bathtub.
“I can’t even begin to understand the workings of his mind, princess. You’ve had a long night. Rest up. Dinner is at six sharp.”
I cross my arms. “Why are you being so nice to me?”
Luciano watches me for a beat before sighing. “Because I like you. And I think as much as Samson loathes your father, he really does want to find a way to work with him without resorting to violence. You are the key, Miss. Montcroix.” With that, he walks out and closes the door.
+
I SLEEP LIKE the dead for the rest of the day. By the time evening falls, I am alert and ready for whatever Samson has in store. Bathing quickly in the fancy, oval bath, I step into the softest towel before finding clothes and a note on the bed. Who had come in while I was in the bath? My cheeks flush as I read the scratchy handwriting.
Here are some clothes to wear for dinner. You don’t strike me as a dress person, so enjoy the pants.
-Sam
I pull on the black trousers made of some kind of wool—it’s cooler today, and the sun will be below the horizon soon, so they’re much appreciated. Next is a knit, white sweater that feels like woolen silk. The material is so fine, I’m afraid it’ll unknit itself as I bend over to pull on the leather ballet flats. Damn him. They’re the most comfortable clothes I’ve ever worn, and how in the hell did he know my size? I study my reflection in the gilded mirror next to the wardrobe. The clothes flatter me. They’re very fancy, and I wonder how much ransom money he’s accrued over the years to be able to afford such finery.
I leave my room at five minutes to six. When I pull the door open, I step out and bound right into a short, squat man with a trimmed beard and mustache.
“Oh dear, I’m sorry—” he squawks.
“It was my fault,” I say, giving him a timid smile. He returns it. I look around. “Would you happen to know where dinner is being served?”
“It’s right this way,” he says quickly, beckoning for me to follow him. “I am supposed to escort you to your meals.” He leads me down a modern hallway on the opposite side of my bedroom. Concrete floors, floor to ceiling windows. He speaks to me over his shoulder as we turn a corner. “I’m Horace, by the way. Samson’s personal assistant.
“Maybelle. Nice to meet you.”
“Please excuse the prince’s behavior this morning. The basement—I mean, really,” he scoffs, grinning. “He means well.”
“So I’ve heard,” I mumble, crossing my arms.
“I’ll leave you here,” he says quickly, nodding to the closed, aluminum double doors. “Samson is already inside.” He pauses and cocks his head to the side. He’s wearing jeans, tennis shoes, and a faded t-shirt. Like Luciano, he has tattoos on almost every surface of his skin beside his face. “It’s been awhile since he’s had a dinner guest. Years, even. I apologize in advance for his appearance.” At that, Horace scuttles briskly away.
I stare at the doors. Slowly, I raise my palm and push against one of the panels, and the dining room that meets my eye takes my breath away.
Floor-to-ceiling windows line the room, exaggerating the sunset and casting a hazy, orange glow over the glass top table and iron chairs. A large chandelier—bigger than the carriage that drove us here—sits above us, and hundreds of flickering candles set the mood. The table is set for two—Samson is already seated at the far end, wearing what looks like the very same clothes he kidnapped me in. His short, brown hair is ruffled—the sides are cut shorter, and the top flops over his forehead. He’s watching me with mild annoyance. I glance at the other end, where the other setting awaits, and I’m glad to be so far from him. I sit down slowly, glancing around every so often to take everything in. The dog sits at the King’s feet.
“Thank you for the clothes,” I say quickly, fidgeting with the iron silverware.
“Well, I figured it was that or those awful street clothes you were wearing last night,” he answers, his deep voice cool. I wait for the hint of humor, but it doesn’t come, and my cheeks flush. In the bathroom earlier, I’d seen the cuts on my cheek from the hedges, the dried blood. I had to untangle my hair from the twigs and leaves when I washed it. I must’ve looked—
No. I’m not going to let him make me feel bad about my earlier appearance when clearly he didn’t even bother to put on a change of clothes for supper.
“Yes, well, I ca
n see that appearances are very important to you,” I retort, adding a bite to my words as I roll my eyes from his face to his filthy shoes.
He scowls. “I’ve been out all day, doing work for the Marauders. I’ve only just come in, and I didn’t want to be late.”
Just then, a woman barges in with a food trolley. My stomach lurches. I didn’t realize just how hungry I was until the smell of roasted chicken hits my senses. I barely register her words to me as she serves potatoes, chicken, meat pies, fresh green peas, and other delicacies I haven’t tasted in years. My mouth fills with saliva.
“. . .like to drink?” the woman asks. I blink once, realizing she was asking me a question.
“Excuse me?” I give her an apologetic smile.
“To drink, princess. What would you like to drink?” Samson grinds out through gritted teeth. I shoot him a look of contempt.
“Anything is fine, thank you,” I tell her.
She pours me a glass of sparkling wine the color of gold. “I’m Anna Pottsend, the cook. If you need anything, you are welcome in the kitchen anytime.” She gives me a wide grin before serving Samson. Once she’s finished placing an ungodly amount of food on his plate, she exits the room, leaving me alone with my kidnapper. I contemplate the ways I could kill him with the three-pronged fork, but my grumbling stomach distracts me. Samson begins to eat, and so I follow suit. Murder can wait.
I must be making a fool of myself because soon Samson stops eating and stares at me in horror as I shovel the food into my mouth with little to no thought. I stop mid-bite.
“What?” I ask, my mouth full of chicken.
“You act as though you haven’t eaten in weeks.” His voice is tinged with pity.
I swallow. “Yes, well, independence isn’t exactly lucrative. Once I left the Elite, I had to take a janitorial job—much like the rest of the people on that side of the city. I don’t mind it, but my roommate and I—”
“Roommate?” Samson asks, his eyebrows shooting up.
A rivulet of anger works through me. “Does that surprise you?”
He sets his fork down and places his palms face down on the table. “It does,” he says slowly. “Your father lets you starve? If you’re struggling to get by, and he can afford to appoint guards to watch you, why doesn’t he step in when you need help?”
I look down. “Because I told him not to. And, because he doesn’t know.”
Samson’s eyes rove over my face, studying me intently. “If he knew, do you think he’d step in?”
“Of course,” I breathe.
Samson smiles, and I notice a small dimple on his right cheek. “I think I’ve just discovered my bargaining chip.”
I shake my head. “You’re kidding yourself if you think you can convince him to play nice,” I rebuke, grabbing my fork and continuing to eat.
“I might not be able to convince him, but you can.”
My fork clatters down to the table and I stare at him. “Excuse me?”
His smile grows. Well, there’s the other dimple. Damn him. “You just summarized your life for me, Maybelle, and I realized something. You sought independence because maybe you had a friend or two on the other side—you wanted to earn your life. You didn’t agree with some of the things he was doing, so you left.” I stay silent. Godric wasn’t born an elite, and he was a big reason why I gave everything up. “So, at eighteen, you emancipated yourself and cut ties with the throne, but your father loves you too much to let you go completely, so he sent a few guards to watch over you. Stubbornness and pride have kept him in the dark about your conditions, but once you tell him, once you explain the plight of our people, he might be convinced to make some actual changes. If anyone can persuade him, it’ll be you. It’s perfect. You were born an Elite, and you’ll convince him as a Marauder. The best of both worlds.”
I balk. “A Marauder? I’d rather die a thousand deaths.”
His smile fades. “You and I? We’re not that different. I may have a bigger platform. I’m in charge of more people. But we’re fighting for the same thing. If we weren’t, I wouldn’t have caught you stealing books.” Samson’s hands are clasped in front of him and he’s watching me with interest. “That is what you were doing, wasn’t it?”
Shit.
“And what, exactly is your cause? Last I heard, you were throwing bricks through windows, looting shops, and murdering people. How do you expect my father to take you seriously when you’re basically a glorified pirate?”
Samson stands suddenly and walks around the table to where I’m seated. The large dog follows, looking between the two of us and whining. “Your father is not a bad man, princess. He just gets a lot of bad advice from people who wish to see our people sink further into despair. Making books illegal was one way to destabilize us. The less we read, the less we question things. I don’t believe he did it out of maliciousness. I believe he did it out of ignorance. And his advisors think that if you and I were to read, we’d resist the divide, which would be bad for them,” Samson begins, rubbing his lips with his fingers. I try not to stare at his scars, the marred skin that should be smooth.
I clear my throat and look down at my hands. Maybe we’re not so different after all. “I was young. I didn’t really understand what was happening until it was too late. Everyone on your—our—side turned against each other. Explosions, gun fights, all-out war. . . and it got worse every day. When I was eighteen, I decided that I didn’t belong as an Elite. I wanted to be brave. I wanted to fight for something. So, I left. My best friend Godric and I began to steal books. At first, it was just a silly, rebellious thing I did after being pampered for eighteen years. Then, it grew into a movement—and I got addicted to the adrenaline high. And the stories.” I stop and look up at him. “The Marauders do not protect art—they pillage houses and burn things, kill people,” I whisper. “Or at least that’s what I’ve been told.”
Samson just smirks. His face, though uneven, has the foundation of handsomeness. A sharp nose, angled jaw, plush lips, and the bluest eyes I’ve ever seen. “We never harmed a soul. Our reputation was perpetuated by your father’s people.”
“My father told me a Marauder killed my mother. He told me—”
“He lied,” Samson interjects.
My face blanches. “Why?” I ask, my voice quiet. Samson’s prickly stare heats me. He’s watching me with something in his expression. Compassion, perhaps? Everything I believed growing up was a lie. The person I wanted to kill just this morning was now helping me. I don’t know what to make of that.
“Are you finished eating?” he asks, shuffling his feet and arching an eyebrow.
I nod. “I’ve lost my appetite.”
He chuckles. “Have you always been this dramatic, or is it a recent development?”
I crack a smile. “It seems to be a side effect of being near you,” I snipe back, scowling.
He tilts his head and grabs my hand. The warmth shocks me, and I almost pull away, but his smile widens and his lips twist to the side conspiratorially. Damn. “Come with me. I want to show you something.”
Part Two
I FOLLOW SAMSON out of the dining room and down the hallway of glass. He dropped my hand moments ago, but I can still feel him—the rough callouses, the heat. Shaking my hands out, we climb the winding staircase in silence. The dog runs ahead, wagging its tail as we climb to meet it. I’m still digesting his words from a few moments ago. Why would my father lie about my mother’s death? Samson leads me up another flight of stairs to the top story of the warehouse. I hesitate for a second, wondering if perhaps this has all been a trick. Just as I’m about to ask where we’re going, Samson turns abruptly and I nearly collide with his hard body.
“I know you think I’m the enemy, Maybelle, but I’m not. Not yours, anyway.” He gives me a tight smile, and just for a second, I see the man beneath the scars. His voice is softer than before. I open my mouth to reply, but I don’t know what to say. He continues. “After we convince your father, I’ll n
eed help bridging the gap between the rich and poor. You can stay on as a Marauder, or I can help you get a better job in the city.” He smirks, and my heart flutters against my chest.
“You’re giving me an option?” I whisper, studying the metal railing and the flecked mirrors lining the walls in the hallway behind us.
“I’m not going to hold you captive if that’s what you’re asking.”
I flick my eyes up to his. “I just figured. . . because of last night. . .” I shift away from him so that I can walk past him and down the hallway to my mysterious surprise, but Samson gently tugs me closer.
“I’m—I’m trying to find people who view the future the same way I do. I want to live in a world where everyone has access to art and education—books, museums, dance, music, universities, parks—a world where there aren’t people who seek to destroy art and everything it stands for. I have to do something. I have to protect it—without art, we’ll be more of a soulless society than we already are. I need your help, Maybelle.” I hesitate, sucking in a sharp breath, and he continues. “I’ll admit my methods last night were extreme, but if you want nothing to do with me, I’d understand completely. It wouldn’t be the first time.”
I bite my lower lip and look down. “I want to help. I really do. I just don’t know if I can trust you.” When I’m done speaking, I look back up at him. His eyes connect with mine, and my face burns. He’s waiting for an answer.
“How can I persuade you to help me?” he asks, his voice liquid velvet. I’m drawn to his markings. I want to trace them—the ones on his lips— “Maybelle?”
Snapping out of my daze, I clear my throat and shake my head. “How about I give you an answer by the end of the week? That way, I can figure out a plan to convince my father, and you can prove that you are the man you say you are.”
Beast: An Anthology Page 24
