Beauty and the Devil

chapter 27

I didn’t wait for him to answer the phone this time. I didn’t send another text. I didn’t sit around hoping the silence would change its shape. I just went.

I put on clean clothes — jeans, a fitted blouse, and boots I hadn’t worn in months. Not because I wanted to look a certain way, but because the ritual of getting dressed helped me stay upright. I didn’t pack anything. I didn’t bring a bag. I didn’t write a note for Aaron. I ordered a cab, sat quietly in the back, and gave the address I swore I’d never speak again. The driver didn’t comment. He took one look at me and left me alone.

The ride took longer than I remembered. Maybe traffic, maybe nerves. I kept my eyes on the road ahead, hands clasped tight in my lap, heart steady but dull. When the gates came into view, I told myself they’d lock me out. That someone would flag my name, revoke the code, erase the last traces of me.

But the gate opened without hesitation.

The same soft mechanical whir. The same cold iron sliding apart.

My name was still in the system.

He’d never removed me.

I stepped out and walked up the steps without pausing. The house was dark from the outside, but I could feel it — that weight of stillness that didn’t mean emptiness. The air had the same thick, slightly floral scent it always had. I didn’t ring the bell. I pushed the door open, and it gave way like it had been waiting.

The marble floors were cold underfoot, even through the leather soles of my boots. I crossed the foyer slowly, heels tapping against the tile in a rhythm I hadn’t heard in weeks. The sound didn’t echo. It folded back in on itself, swallowed by the quiet of the house.

My hand brushed the hallway wall as I passed it, and I remembered the way I used to lean against it — breath held, nerves shot, waiting to hear which version of Clyde would round the corner. I remembered the chill in my spine, the way I had measured every step like it could trigger something. But this time I didn’t slow down. I didn’t hesitate.

I walked toward the study because I knew he’d be there.

I didn’t knock before entering. I just stepped through.

He was facing away from me, sleeves rolled to the elbows, one hand resting on the desk, the other wrapped around a glass. I didn’t have to see his face to know what he looked like. Tired. Closed off. Sharp in the shoulders but heavy in the eyes. He didn’t move when I entered. He didn’t ask who it was. He knew.

I didn’t speak. I didn’t explain.

I dropped my coat to the floor and started unbuttoning my blouse. My hands moved slowly, deliberately. I watched his back — the way it straightened slightly, the way his fingers shifted on the glass.

“I’m not here to talk,” I said, once my voice could find itself.

He turned his head just enough to glance over his shoulder, jaw clenched, expression unreadable. He didn’t interrupt. He didn’t stop me.

I let the blouse slide off my arms and fall beside my coat. Then I reached behind me and unhooked my bra. I let that fall too.

Finally, he turned to face me fully. His expression was hard — not angry, just focused. His eyes moved over me, not leering, but searching for the reason.

“What are you doing, Samantha?” he asked, voice low.

I took a step closer. I didn’t look away.

“I’ll give you what you want,” I said. “If you help me find my brother.”

He didn’t respond right away. His gaze dropped, then returned to mine. He looked frustrated. Disbelieving. Hurt, maybe. I couldn’t tell.

“You think I need this to say yes?” he asked, eyes narrowing. “You think that’s what this is about?”

I kept my voice steady. “I think this is the only thing I have left to offer.”

He crossed the space between us with a speed I didn’t expect. He grabbed my wrist — not to hurt me, just to stop me. The pressure of his grip was solid, warm, real. For a second, we didn’t say anything.

Then I whispered, “Please.”

His fingers tightened just slightly.

“You don’t beg,” he said, not as a rule, but as a fact.

I met his eyes. “I do now.”

That broke something in him.

His mouth crashed into mine like a storm, no warning, no hesitation. His lips were molten, urgent, and I could taste the burn of whiskey on his tongue, sharp and intoxicating. His hands—rough, demanding—were everywhere at once, gripping my arms, sliding down to my waist, yanking me against him so hard I stumbled. But I didn’t care. I didn’t think. I needed him like I needed air.

My back hit the wall with a thud, and I barely registered the sound of the picture frame shattering beside us, glass raining down. A bottle teetered off the desk, crashing to the floor, but neither of us looked. Neither of us stopped. We were too consumed.

His hands were frantic, tearing at my clothes, not bothering with finesse. My blouse was shoved up over my breasts, his mouth hot and hungry on my neck, teeth grazing, tongue laving. His shirt was still buttoned, but I clawed at it like a woman possessed, desperate to feel his skin against mine. His breath was ragged, uneven, and every huff of air against my ear sent a jolt of need straight to my core.

He fumbled with my jeans, yanking them down my thighs, and I kicked them off without a second thought. His cock was already hard pressing against me through his slacks, and I reached for his belt buckle with trembling fingers. He didn’t let me finish—he shoved my hand aside, freeing himself in one rough motion.

Then he was inside me, no warning, no preamble, just a brutal, delicious thrust that made me gasp. My legs wrapped around his hips, pulling him deeper, and he groaned against my neck, a sound so raw it made me ache. He fucked me like he was trying to punish me, to claim me, and I loved every second of it.

The rhythm was erratic, desperate, but it didn’t matter. I didn’t need him to be slow or gentle. I needed this—his hands gripping my thighs, his cock driving into me, the pressure building so fast it was almost unbearable. My nails dug into his shoulders, leaving marks I knew would linger, and I arched against him, moaning his name like a prayer.

He fucked me harder, deeper, our bodies slamming together with a wet, filthy sound that made my cheeks burn. I was close, so close, and when his thumb found my clit, rubbing rough circles, I shattered. My orgasm hit me like a tidal wave, my body shaking, my legs trembling around him. He didn’t stop—he kept fucking me through it, his thrusts growing even more frantic until he came with a guttural groan, spilling himself inside me.

When it was over, we didn’t pull apart. He stayed buried inside me, our foreheads pressed together, our breaths mingling. I could feel his heart pounding against my chest, and I knew mine was racing just as fast. He didn’t say a word.

He pressed his forehead to mine, breathing hard, one hand still tangled in my hair, the other curled around my hip like if he let go, I might vanish again.

“I’ll find him,” he said, voice low and rough.

“I swear to God, Samantha. I’ll bring him back.”