Page 96 of Brutal

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SAMSON

The room seems to hold her essence when she leaves. Her scent. Her voice. The heat she left in the air. I still see the subtle bruising on her neck from my hands, my teeth. And around all of it, her pendant. Justice.

Fuck…

I stay where I am for a moment, staring at the door like I expect it to open again.

It doesn’t.

Good.

I don’t want her back in here.

Which is a big-ass fucking lie.

My hand is still half-curled at my side. I remember the line of her wrist, the pull of her body when I dragged her closer, the way she leaned in instead of away.

I force my fingers open. Close them again.

Twice now.

Twice I’ve let her close the distance.

Twice I’ve chosen not to stop it.

That’s not loss of control.

That’s worse.

That’s desire. No, it’s pure lusty want.

And want is a dangerous thing for a man raised the way I was.

I move behind the desk and brace both hands on the edge. The office is too quiet. From here, I can’t hear the soft jazz, the hum of conversation from the club.

I’m a beast in a fine cage.

The memory hits before I can stop it.

I’m ten.

The kitchen at Vexley House gleams with marble floors and white counters.

I’m holding one of my mother’s crystal tumblers. It’s heavy, and it slips out of my hand, hits the tile, and shatters.

The sound cuts through the room.

I freeze.

Don’t breathe. Don’t move. Don’t look at the pieces.

I expect the maid to come. Or my nanny. Maybe even my mother, but when I hear footsteps, I know it’s not any of them.

I know the sound. I know what follows it.

I brace before I even turn.

But he doesn’t reach me first.

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