Page 8 of Brutal
She twists the small pendant. “I suppose it could depend on who’s telling the story.”
Something stirs inside me then. Something I haven’t felt in a long time.
“What’s your name?” I ask.
She hesitates long enough that I wonder if she’ll respond.
Then she touches the pendant again. “Delaney Cross.”
Delaney Cross. An unusual yet beautiful name for an unusual and beautiful woman.
“You know who I am,” I say.
“Yes.”
“And still you stayed when I approached you.”
“Should I have run?”
“Most people do.”
Again she touches the silver scales. “Maybe most people don’t like seeing dangerous things up close.”
“And you do?”
“I like understanding them.”
I can’t help a chuckle. I’ve been called many things in rooms like this. Dangerous is one of the more honest ones. And one of the kindest.
She glances at her watch. “I should go.”
“Should you?”
“Yes.” She sets cash on the bar instead of signing a tab. Then she stands.
She’s taller than I expected, all long lines and confidence.
“Good night, Mr. Vexley.”
“Samson.”
A small pause. “Good night, Samson.”
She walks toward the door without looking back. Near the exit she glances once toward the security camera mounted in the corner. Then she’s gone.
I remain where I am, staring at the empty space she left behind.
For years I’ve been the most dangerous thing in every room that matters.
The man people fear.
The man people obey.
Tonight a woman with steel-blue eyes and a silver scale at her throat looked at me as if I were something to be understood rather than feared.
And all I can think about is getting her naked and fucking her senseless.
2
