Beauty and the Devil

chapter 25

Samantha’s POV

Aaron brought me tea every morning.

He never asked how I slept. Just set the cup down beside me with quiet hands, then turned away before I could say thank you. His voice stayed even. His footsteps were soft, almost rehearsed. He folded my clothes without being asked. Cooked more food than we needed. Said things like “take your time” and “you don’t owe me anything.”

It was kind. Thoughtful. Gentle.

And it made me feel like I was being handled.

The bruises from his fight with Clyde had faded. The cut on his lip had healed. But every time I mentioned Michael, even in passing, I saw something shift in his face. A tension in his jaw. A hesitation in his breath. It wasn’t guilt. It wasn’t fear. Just avoidance.

Michael hadn’t returned a single call.

At first, I tried not to panic. I told myself he needed space. He’d gone quiet before. Maybe he just didn’t want to talk. But by the third day, I started calling twice. By the fourth, I left messages that got shorter each time.

By the fifth, I stopped pretending.

Aaron told me it was nothing. “He’s probably just blowing off steam,” he said. “He’s your brother. He wouldn’t just disappear.”

But I knew better.

When Michael stopped texting, it was never just about space.

I started staying up later. Walking the edges of the safehouse at 2 a.m., checking the locks twice, sometimes three times. I stood by the window with the lights off and scrolled through my phone like the screen might light up just from willing it to.

Clyde hadn’t contacted me once.

No messages. No missed calls. Not even a forwarded address.

I stared at the empty screen for an hour one night, then typed one word and sent it without thinking.

Please.

He didn’t respond.

The screen stayed dark. I didn’t try again.

A week passed like that — quiet mornings, too-long nights, conversations that looped and stalled.

Then Aaron took me out.

Not to somewhere polished or high-end — just a small place near the edge of town. Wooden chairs. Heavy flatware. A candle stuck in a jar on the table, flickering more than it glowed. There was a slow song playing from a speaker behind the bar. I didn’t know the lyrics, but the voice sounded tired.

I’d forgotten my jacket. He gave me his without asking. It hung off me at the shoulders and smelled like his detergent.

He watched me through dinner. Not constantly — just enough that I felt it. I cut my food into smaller pieces than necessary and barely touched them. He didn’t push.

Halfway through, his hand moved across the table — slowly, like he thought I might flinch. It stopped just before it reached mine. Then it pulled back.

“I could protect you,” he said quietly. “For real. No more hiding. No more waiting for the next threat.”

I didn’t look up.

He kept going. “We could leave this behind. Start over somewhere quiet. Just you and me. Somewhere you could sleep without checking the locks.”

I said nothing.

Then he reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a small box. He didn’t open it right away. Just placed it between us like it wasn’t heavy.

When he did open it, the ring inside was plain. Gold. No diamond. No glitter. Just a band. Simple.

There was no question. No speech.

“You wouldn’t have to run anymore,” he said.

Then he sat back. Waiting.

The ring stayed where he left it — between my hand and his, gleaming faintly in the flickering candlelight. I felt the heat in my cheeks, not from the light — from the pressure. From the fact that this was the closest thing to safe I’d been offered in a long time, and I still couldn’t feel it.

I looked at the ring.

Then at him.

And for a moment, I wondered what would be worse — saying no, or pretending I meant yes.