Page 38 of Hunted to the Altar
Before I could argue further, he closed the door, locking me inside. I banged on it, shouting his name, but he didn’t come back. The sounds of the fight raged on outside, each gunshot making my chest tighten with fear.
I sank to the floor, my hands trembling as I pressed them to my ears, trying to block out the noise. Tears streamed down myface, and I hated myself for it. I hated feeling so helpless, so dependent on the very man I despised.
Minutes felt like hours, each one stretching longer than the last. The muffled sounds of fighting ebbed and flowed, and every time they seemed to quiet, a new burst of gunfire would erupt. My thoughts raced wildly, conjuring images of Samuel’s bloodied body, of the door being forced open by men who had no intention of showing mercy.
When the gunfire finally stopped, the silence was almost worse. I sat there, frozen, until the door opened and Samuel stepped inside. His suit was torn, his knuckles bloodied, and there was a cut above his eye, but he was alive.
“It’s over,” he said, his voice low and steady. “For now.”
I launched myself at him, my emotions spilling over as I clung to him. He stiffened for a moment, clearly surprised, but then his arms wrapped around me, holding me tight.
“You’re safe,” he murmured, his lips brushing against my hair. “I promise, you’re safe.”
But as I buried my face in his chest, the faint scent of blood and gunpowder clinging to him, I couldn’t help but wonder how long that safety would last.
The aftermath was just as brutal as the attack itself. Samuel’s men worked quickly to clear the bodies, their movements efficient but grim. Blood stained the floors, a stark reminder of how close we had come to death. Samuel stayed by my side, his hand firm on my back as if afraid I might disappear if he let go.
“Who were they?” I asked finally, my voice hoarse.
“Sicilians,” he said, his jaw tight. “Picone’s men.”
The name sent a chill down my spine. Picone. I’d heard the name whispered in terror during my captivity, a shadowy figure who seemed more myth than man. And now, his reach had found me again.
Samuel turned his attention back to the mess at hand, his tone sharp as he directed his men. “Take the bodies out theback. Leave one of them intact enough to deliver the message. They need to know who they’re dealing with.”
The men nodded, dragging the lifeless forms through the crimson-streaked hallways. I watched in silent horror, unable to tear my eyes away from the trail of blood smeared across the once-pristine marble floor. Samuel caught my gaze and stepped closer, his expression softening slightly as he cupped my chin, forcing me to look up at him.
“Don’t think about it,” he said, his voice low but firm. “This is what it takes to keep you safe.”
“Safe?” I whispered, my voice trembling. “I don’t feel safe, Samuel. I feel like a pawn in some twisted game.”
He exhaled slowly, his thumb brushing against my jaw. “It’s safe because I’ve made it so. My rat knows their movements now. And you’re not a pawn. You’re the queen. And the queen is always protected.”
The words should have comforted me, but they didn’t. Instead, they only reinforced the walls closing in around me. Samuel turned away, his demeanor shifting back to the ruthless enforcer as he continued issuing orders. But even as he moved through the chaos, his presence remained tethered to me, an unrelenting force I couldn’t escape.
I sank onto the couch, my knees pulling to my chest, as I tried to steady my breathing. The metallic scent of blood lingered in the air, mingling with the faint trace of Samuel’s cologne. My thoughts swirled, the events of the day replaying in vivid detail. No matter how hard I tried to rationalize it, one truth became increasingly clear: There was no escaping this world. No escaping him.
The cleanup stretched into the early hours of the morning. The sounds of bodies being dragged, the faint squelch of blood-soaked fabric against the marble, and the inaudible murmurs of Samuel’s men created a grotesque symphony that I couldn’t block out. I sat frozen, my mind replayingthe explosion, the gunfire, and Samuel’s unflinching brutality.
At one point, I heard him barking orders from another room, his voice carrying the authority that left no room for argument. He reappeared moments later, his suit jacket discarded, his shirt rolled up to reveal blood-smeared forearms. His expression was unreadable, but his movements were deliberate as he approached me.
“You need to rest,” he said, his tone softer than I expected. “Come on.”
I stared at him, my body refusing to move. “I can’t.”
He crouched down in front of me, his blue eyes piercing. “You can. You will. This isn’t over, Nina. We need to be ready for whatever comes next.”
“Whatever comes next?” I echoed, my voice cracking. “Samuel, I can’t keep living like this. I… I?—”
He placed a hand on my knee, grounding me. “You’re stronger than you think. And as long as you’re with me, you’ll survive. Do you understand?”
I nodded reluctantly, tears welling in my eyes. He stood, extending a hand to me. For a moment, I hesitated, but then I placed my hand in his, letting him pull me to my feet.
As he led me toward the bedroom, I couldn’t help but glance over my shoulder at the crimson-streaked floors, a chilling reminder of the life I was now entangled in. Samuel squeezed my hand gently, pulling my attention back to him.
“Focus on me,” he breathed. “Not them. Not the blood. Me.”
For the first time that night, I felt a flicker of something unfamiliar—not safety, not comfort, but a fragile thread of trust. It terrified me more than anything else.
