Beauty and the Devil

chapter 30

Samantha’s POV

The rain had stopped.

The air still carried that heavy smell of wet stone and earth, and the steps beneath my thighs were damp, but the storm had moved on. The trees barely moved now. The wind was softer. Everything felt quieter than it should have — like the house, the woods, the night itself were all holding their breath with us.

Clyde hadn’t spoken since I sat down.

His arm was wrapped in clean gauze, ribs bound under a fresh shirt. His knuckles were scraped raw. The blood had dried into the lines of his skin, almost part of him now. Moonlight caught him at an angle that made everything else blur — not sharp, not threatening. Just exhausted.

When he finally spoke, his voice was low. Not broken. Just worn.

“I shouldn’t have let it get that far.”

He didn’t look at me when he said it. He didn’t have to.

I didn’t ask what he meant. There were too many answers, and none of them would undo what happened.

“Michael’s safe,” I said.

Clyde nodded slowly, like he understood the words but hadn’t accepted them yet. His fingers opened and closed once, then stilled on his thigh.

“I put the paperwork through,” he said. “He’s got the spot he wanted. Cybersecurity. Fully paid. No strings. No trail.”

I turned my head. “You didn’t have to—”

“I did.” His voice didn’t rise. “That was the cost. Yours.”

The words settled somewhere deep in my chest. I didn’t push back. I couldn’t.

There was no apology in his voice. But there was no edge either. Just truth.

***

Michael left two weeks later.

He came down the stairs with a single duffel slung over his shoulder. His eyes were clearer. The bruises had started to fade. He didn’t say much to Clyde. Just held out his hand, shook once, then let go. No long goodbye. No speech.

I hugged him too tightly. He didn’t pull away. When I stepped back, he gave me a look that said everything he didn’t say out loud.

Then he got into the car Clyde had sent for him and stared out the window as it pulled away. He didn’t look back.

I stood in the driveway barefoot, arms crossed against the wind.

Clyde didn’t come outside. I found him in the library that night.

The windows were open, letting in the scent of wet grass and paper. A breeze shifted the curtains just enough to lift the edges of the rug. The desk lamp was still on, casting light across an open ledger. He hadn’t touched it.

He was staring out the window, one hand loose on the edge of the desk.

“You don’t have to stay,” he said.

He didn’t turn.

“I know.”

The silence stretched. “You don’t belong here.”

I took a few steps into the room. “Then why did you make space for me?”

He turned. His face was hard to read. Not closed. Not open. Just his.

“Because no matter how much I tried to keep you out,” he said, “you were already inside.”

My throat felt tight. The room felt smaller.

He stepped away from the desk, walked toward me slowly, the way he always did — not hesitant, just deliberate. When he stopped in front of me, his hands stayed at his sides.

“You could still leave,” he said. “Aaron would take you. He’d give you softness.”

I shook my head. “I don’t want softness.”

His jaw shifted. “Then what do you want?”

I didn’t look away.

“I want to stop pretending I can’t love something just because it scares me.”

He inhaled like the words had landed harder than he expected.

I stepped in and pressed my mouth to his.

There was nothing rushed about it. Nothing desperate. Just a kiss with no conditions, no deadline, no need to explain anything.

He kissed me back like he finally understood that I was here because I wanted to be.