Beauty and the Devil

chapter 4

Samantha’s POV

The oil warmed quickly in my palms, slick and golden, catching the low light like honey. My hands hovered for a second over his back before I finally made contact. His skin was hot—like he ran on a different temperature than everyone else.

He didn’t flinch. He didn’t move at all.

I started at his shoulders, pressing into the thick muscle, keeping my breath steady. His body was built like it had taken a lot of damage and decided to come back stronger for it. Not gym-sculpted. Hardened. Used. Functional.

Beneath my fingertips, I felt the maps of his life—scar tissue layered into muscle, deep grooves like healed-over warnings. Some were old, faint and smooth, others jagged and recent.

I spoke before I could stop myself. “When scars settle in like this, they pull the fascia tight. It makes the muscle overcompensate—”

“Just do your job,” he said. Voice clipped. No eye contact. Like talking was beneath him.

Right. Shut up, work.

I pressed deeper, focusing on the knot near his spine, but my mind wouldn't cooperate. Every time I shifted my stance, every time my fingers moved across his back, I was hyper-aware of him. Of the heat from his skin. Of the way his breath stayed so still—too still, like he didn’t trust the air in the room.

I tried not to look. Really, I did.

But the more I tried not to notice him, the more I did. His back was impossibly broad beneath me. His arms alone could break ribs. The kind of strength that had nothing to prove and didn’t care if it made you uncomfortable.

My pulse was annoyingly loud in my ears. My skin flushed for no reason I wanted to admit.

Get a grip, Sam. You're here for one hour. He’s just another client. But my hands were trembling slightly. Not out of fear. Not entirely, anyway.

I moved down to his arm, trying to stay clinical, professional. That’s when I saw his hand.

Bruised knuckles. Split skin. Like someone had recently caught a fistful of Clyde Marlowe’s wrath.

There was something so jarringly intimate about noticing that. I don’t know why. Maybe because it confirmed what the whispers always danced around—he hurt people. With these hands. Hands I was now carefully holding.

My eyes drifted upward, just for a second.

And that’s when I saw the photograph.

It was out of place. A framed picture on the far wall. The woman in it had soft curls, a warm face, a real smile. She looked like the kind of person who baked for neighbors and actually meant it when she asked how you were doing. Not Clyde’s type—if he had a type. Maybe a sister? A past he didn’t talk about?

I didn’t realize how long I’d paused until I felt his gaze.

Not turned toward me—just aware of me.

I straightened, wiped my hands on a towel, and took a step back.

“All done,” I said. “That’ll be one hundred euros.”

He sat up slowly, water still glistening across his skin. He didn’t grab a towel. Didn’t bother covering up. Just leaned forward on his elbows, watching me.

There was a pause. Like he was deciding how honest to be.

Then: “No, darling.”

His voice had shifted—low, quieter than before, but it hit like a cold splash. “That’s one hundred euros from you… and a thousand more like that.”

I stared at him. What?

“What does that mean?”

He didn’t answer me. Instead, he raised his voice. Calm. Sharp. Casual.

“Bring him in.”

My body locked. That voice… it changed the air.

The door opened.

And suddenly the world narrowed into one scene I couldn’t make sense of fast enough.

A man stepped in—huge, built like a truck in a leather jacket—and he wasn’t alone.

Michael.

My brother. Pulled in by the collar. Hands tied. Blood on his cheek, his mouth. Thrown onto the cold marble floor like he was nothing.

“Michael!” I dropped down instinctively, catching his head in my hands. His breathing was shallow. Eyes barely open. “What—what the hell—what did you do to him?”

He tried to speak, but his voice cracked under the effort.

I looked up at Clyde, my hands shaking now for very different reasons.

“You know what he did,” Clyde said.

His voice had no heat. No raised volume. Just the unshakable weight of someone who always gets the last word.

“Your brother messed up big time,” he said. “And he owes me a lot of money.”