Total pages in book: 71
Estimated words: 77171 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 386(@200wpm)___ 309(@250wpm)___ 257(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77171 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 386(@200wpm)___ 309(@250wpm)___ 257(@300wpm)
Men like Samson Vexley aren’t born.
They’re made. They’re carved just like the key in the wood and honed to perfection into something dangerous.
And I just walked in willingly.
9
SAMSON
She doesn’t look away.
Most people do.
They come into this house and they look at the ceilings, the glass, the stone like they’re trying to absorb it all. Or they lower their gaze and choose not to look because they’re overwhelmed.
Delaney Cross does neither.
She homes in on the one constant.
The key.
Most people never notice it. Or if they do, they assume it’s decorative and move on.
She doesn’t touch it. But she comes close. Close enough to understand it matters.
A smile pulls at my mouth.
Damn. This woman makes me want to smile more than anyone I’ve ever met.
“Come with me,” I say.
I don’t wait to see if she will. I turn and walk out into the corridor, knowing she’ll follow. She can’t help herself. She wants something. An answer. I’m just not sure of the question yet. But I’m fairly certain it has to do with Victor Halstead.
A name I prefer to keep buried inside my head where no one touches it.
I move at an even pace. I don’t explain anything. I don’t point things out.
I let her see what she sees.
Behind me, her footsteps remain steady. No hesitation. No attempt to fill the silence with questions or polite conversation.
She’s observing.
I can feel it.
We pass the main hall and then the staircase. The railing is iron, worked into a pattern most people would call ornamental.
It isn’t.
I don’t look back.
I don’t need to.
I know the moment she sees it again.
The key.
It’s in the railing, in the negative space between lines. Subtle enough to be missed by anyone not looking.
She’s looking.
We continue down the corridor, past a series of closed doors. Rooms that serve purposes no guest has ever needed to understand. A library that holds more contracts than books. A dining room used for more meetings than meals.
This house was never meant to be warm. Even my mother—may she rest in peace—couldn’t add warmth. And she tried. She tried so hard.
I slow near the far end of the hall, where a section of stone breaks the continuity of the wall. The carving there is older. Less precise.
I turn.
She’s a few steps behind me, eyes still moving, still taking everything in. She shifts her attention to the stone.
“It’s everywhere,” she says.
“Yes.”
She steps closer to the wall. “The same symbol.”
I watch her instead of the carving.
“What does it open?”
She can’t help herself. Delaney Cross is a woman who likes to know things.
“Some doors aren’t meant to be opened,” I say.
My answer lingers between us. In the way the blue in her eyes seems to deepen. In the way she tilts her head just slightly, just enough for me to notice the silver scale pendant at her throat shift.
“That sounds like a warning,” she finally says.
“It is.”
Again the head tilt. “You don’t seem like the type to leave doors closed.”
I suppress a quiet chuckle. “I’m not.”
“Then why should I?”
Because you don’t understand what you’re stepping into.
Because once you start, you won’t be able to stop.
Because there are things in this house that don’t come undone easily.
I don’t say any of that.
Instead, I take a step toward her.
Not enough to crowd her.
Enough to shift the air.
“That depends,” I say, “on whether you’re prepared for what’s on the other side.”
She doesn’t move.
Doesn’t step back.
Her pulse jumps again at the base of her throat. I see it. I remember it from last night, how quickly it betrayed her when I touched her wrist, and how fast she covered it. Her fingers move to the pendant, just a slight touch, as if it grounds her.
“I didn’t come here to stay on one side of any door,” she says.
Something tightens low in my chest. How easy it would be to grab her, pull her to me, kiss her.
And not just any kiss. A fucking ferocious one, where I shove my tongue through those luscious lips of hers and take what I want.
I’ll do it. I’m going to do things to her she never dreamed of. I’m going to do things to her she doesn’t want…and make her want them.
But not yet.
She’s standing in my house, and she’s not adjusting herself to fit more comfortably into it.
It’s unusual.
And a huge turn-on.
I shift my attention away from her, breaking the connection between us before it goes further than I intend.
“Come on,” I say.
I turn again, moving down another corridor, away from the stone, away from that moment.
She follows.
We move through the rest of the house without stopping. Delaney doesn’t hesitate, and she doesn’t intrude. She’s simply present.
That, more than anything, is what I notice.
Most people adjust themselves in a place like this. She doesn’t.
And she doesn’t attempt to walk next to me. She’s comfortable letting me lead, which surprises me. Then again, it also makes sense. This place is foreign to her. Hell, it feels foreign to me half the time.