Page 122 of Brutal
“It doesn’t matter yet.”
“That’s not an answer.”
He grits his jaw. “It’s the only one you need right now.”
Right. His standard answer. This is the Samson Vexley I know, the one who frustrates me to no end. But it’s also the one I know how to handle. Push back. Dig in. Don’t let him control the direction of the conversation.
I throw on a robe and walk to my front door. I reach for the handle and then pause, my fingers hovering.
Something feels off.
I don’t know how I know that. I just do.
“Don’t—” he starts.
Too late.
I open the door and look at the lock from the outside. The metal plate is scratched.
My stomach drops.
Someone stood here. Close enough to touch this door. Close enough to decide whether to come in. I step back slowly.
“They were here,” I say. “Or is this from the first break-in?”
He shakes his head. “I checked it after. These are new marks.”
I turn. He’s closer now. I didn’t hear him move.
My stomach churns. At least I wasn’t home during the first break-in. Now? Someone was standing on the other side of that door while I was inside.
Sleeping.
Unaware.
Vulnerable.
My skin prickles.
And I remember…
His hand on my throat.
Not crushing.
Not choking.
Holding.
The moment I should have stopped him.
The moment I didn’t.
The two feelings collide.
Fear.
And something that feels a lot like trust.
