Page 119 of The Associate
“But you survived,” Gael murmured, his breath warm against Samuel’s skin. “You are here. They lost.” He paused, his grip on Samuel’s face softening into a caress. “And now,” he said, his voice dropping to a hushed, fierce whisper, “you are mine to protect.”
He pulled back just enough to look Samuel directly in the eyes, his gaze unwavering. “No one will ever hurt you like that again. Do you understand? No one.”
Samuel nodded, a small, jerky motion. A fresh tear escaped, traced a path over Gael’s thumb.
Gael leaned in again and pressed a kiss to Samuel’s forehead. Then he kissed the tear-track on his cheek. Then the other.
Then he found Samuel’s mouth.
Gael kissed him as if he could kiss away the memory of every lash, every hour in the dark, every cruel word. He kissed him with a relentless tenderness that left Samuel dizzy.
He didn’t stop. He kissed him again, and again, his hands framing Samuel’s face, his mouth a soft, insistent pressure that spoke of sanctuary, and possession, and a future where the past held no power.
And Samuel kissed him back, pouring every ounce of his relief, his gratitude, his dawning, terrifying hope into the kiss.
Gael didn’t pull away for a long, long time.
Chapter 30
Samuel
Samuel stood on the sidewalk, staring at the colonial brick house. The shutters were painted a crisp, unforgiving white, the windows like dark, watching eyes.
His hands trembled at his sides, a fine, constant tremor he couldn't stop. His breath felt shallow. But inside, his mind was curiously blank. Not peaceful, but scraped raw and hollow. The frantic loop of arguments and fears that had plagued him for days, what he would say, how they would react, the echo of old screams, had all gone silent. It was just static now. The white noise before the storm.
A car pulled up to the curb, its engine cutting with a soft sigh. The door opened and Jacob got out. He walked around the front of the car, his steps measured on the quiet street. He didn't offer platitudes or a pep talk. He simply walked up to Samuel and took his left hand in his right. He squeezed. His grip was strong, his palm warm and slightly rough. It was an anchor. A promise that Samuel wasn't walking up this path alone.
They stood there for a long minute, two brothers side-by-side, looking at the house that had built and broken them in differentways. The autumn sun was weak but bright, glinting off the windows, making the house look like a picture from a catalog. A perfect, empty shell.
"Ready?" Jacob asked after a while, his voice low and calm.
Samuel shook his head. "No."
But his body seemed to operate on a will separate from his fear. His right foot lifted. He placed it on the flagstone path. Then his left followed. One step. Then another. Jacob matched his pace, their joined hands a lifeline between them, their shoulders nearly touching. Samuel didn't let go as they passed the manicured hedges, didn't let go as they climbed the three shallow steps to the broad, empty porch. He only released Jacob's hand when they were standing directly before the dark green door, as Jacob knocked.
A minute passed. Samuel could hear the faint murmur of a television from inside. Then, the sound of a latch turning. The door swung inward.
His mother stood there. She was dressed for the church service she would have attended that morning, a neat floral dress, a single strand of pearls at her throat. Her face lit with a smile she reserved for neighbors and solicitors. It froze mid-curve as her eyes moved from Samuel's face to Jacob's beside him. Her lips pressed into a thin, bloodless line, her eyes hardening as she stared at her younger son, the one who had chosen freedom and never looked back.
"Nice to see you, Mom," Jacob said. His voice was pleasant, but it carried a mocking chill, a challenge she immediately chose to ignore.
She blinked, a rapid flutter, and forcibly rearranged her features into a mask of strained welcome. "Hi, boys," she said, the wordstoo bright. "This is a surprise. We didn't know you werebothcoming." She stepped back, her movement stiff, and gestured them inside with a flutter of her hand. "Come in."
They crossed the threshold into the foyer. The air inside was warm and carried the rich, heavy scent of pot roast and rosemary from the kitchen; the smell of a thousand Sunday dinners that had tasted of ash in Samuel's mouth. "Dinner will be in a few," she said, her voice still pitched too high, as she led them into the living room.
Their father was in his leather armchair, a throne positioned for a view of the large television. A football game played silently on the screen. He didn't turn. He didn't acknowledge their entrance.
Samuel's throat closed. The familiar dynamic descended like a fog: his mother's nervous energy, his father's punishing silence. He felt the old script waiting, the one where he would sit quietly, answer questions in monosyllables, and leave as soon as politeness allowed.
Jacob's hand found his again, fingers lacing through his, a silent rebellion.
"Actually," Samuel began. The single word cracked, brittle in the thick air. His throat was parched, tight with dread. He squeezed Jacob's hand so hard his own knuckles ached. He drew a short, sharp breath, pulling the air past the obstruction. "We… we won't be staying."
His mother turned from her path toward the kitchen, her brows drawing together in a frown of genuine confusion. "What do you mean?"
His father's hand moved. He picked up the remote from the side table, his thumb pressing the power button. The televisionscreen went black. He turned his head slowly, his neck stiff, his gaze landing on Samuel. His expression was impassive, carved from the same cold stone as the church pews. But his eyes; they were flat, dark stones of judgment, already seeing the sin, already measuring the punishment.
Samuel met that gaze and held it. For the first time in his life, he didn't look away. "We… I…" He stopped. Corrected himself. This burden was his. This truth was his to voice. "I need to tell you something. And I know that once I do, I won't be welcome to stay any longer." He paused, letting the finality of it hang. "So."
