Page 21 of Stealing Cinder

The safe is upstairs in my father's study. Behind a panel in the mahogany wainscoting that blends so seamlessly with the wall you'd miss it unless you knew where to press. Lucky for me, I know where to press and I know the combination. It is my father's safe, and the code is my mother's birthday, the same numbers he used for everything because he never stopped loving her, even after she was gone.

Inside that safe is the gun Edgar used to put a bullet in my father's heart. He kept it like a goddamn trophy, locked away in the house of the man he killed.

I aim to prove it tonight.

Heavy footsteps rattle across the kitchen floor. I recognize the cadence before he rounds the corner. Edgar stole his crown from a dead man and struts like the world should thank him for wearing it.

I tuck the wig tighter around my face and hunch over my tray, shrinking my frame small enough to disappear into the throng of servers bustling through the kitchen.

His hand comes down on my ass. Hard. The slap cracks through the kitchen noise and burns against the thin fabric of my skirt. My jaw locks. Heat floods my cheeks, not from embarrassment but from the effort it takes to keep my fist at my side instead of buried in his throat.

"Get out there and give my friends their refreshments."

His breath is close, warm, laced with cigar smoke and the sharp bite of bourbon. I don't look up. If I look up, he might see my eyes and then it's game over.

My fingers white-knuckle the edges of the silver tray. The metal bites cold into my palms, sharp enough to leave grooves in the skin. Heat crawls up the back of my neck and my molars grind together so hard my jaw aches. Every breath I pull in carries the stale smoke of his cigar. I hold it, letting the burn sit in my lungs because the alternative is opening my mouth and ending this mission with my fist.

Inside me, a tiny flutter kicks once, twice and grounds me in the moment.

For you, I remind myself. My thumb strokes the underside of the silver rim. Everything I do is for you.

"Yes, sir." The words scrape up my throat and land on my tongue, sour and metallic. I can taste the submission in them, bitter as battery acid, and I swallow the residue before it makes me gag.

Edgar grunts his approval, already moving away, already forgetting my face. I'm furniture to him. Staff. A body in fishnet stockings here to serve drinks and stroke egos.

Good. Let him forget me. Let him look right through me the way he looks through every woman in his orbit. By the time he remembers Cinder Ashford exists, the evidence will be in my hands and his world will be burning.

I grip the tray and push through the swinging door into the hallway. The hardwood groans beneath my heels. I know this floor better than I know my own reflection. The creak at the base of the main staircase. The soft spot outside my old bedroom on the second floor. The warped board in front of the study door that always announced my father's presence before he rounded the corner.

I keep my eyes low as I pass through the corridor. The hallway smells wrong, cologne and furniture polish that don't belong here, and I hold my breath until I clear it.

The doors to the poker room stand open. Cigar smoke drifts into the hallway, layered over the sharp tang of expensive whiskey and the low murmur of male voices. I step through, head bowed, tray balanced on my palm.

I know the layout without looking. Mahogany card table at the center, crystal decanters on the sideboard, stiff leather chairs arranged for show. Edgar's attempt at old-money elegance is a joke.

I move toward the back table, my heels clicking a steady rhythm against the hardwood while my pulse holds even. Almost there. Set the tray down, walk out, take the stairs.

I slide the tray onto the cabinet and begin placing glasses beside the decanters, my hands running on autopilot, pouring, positioning, straightening each tumbler until I'm invisible in the task.

A thin ribbon of cigar smoke curls past my peripheral vision from the far end of the table. I follow it to the source without meaning to.

And my world stops.

Samuel.

He sits at the far end of the table, cards in hand, dark hair pulled back in a tight knot, silver threading his temples. His jaw is set into a hard line like he hates being here just as much as I do. Dark eyes scan the room with that patient, predatory calm I remember on a cellular level. The edges of ink climb his neck above the crisp collar of his shirt. Scarred knuckles wrap around a crystal tumbler.

Five months dissolve in a single heartbeat.

My lungs lock. The blood drains from my face so fast the room tilts. I grip the edge of the sideboard to stay upright and the crystal decanter I just placed rattles against the tray.

His gaze lifts from his cards.

Our eyes connect and the air between us ignites. The same electric charge from the Gilded Key surges through me, ice and fire twisting together in my veins, pulling the breath from my body and the logic from my brain.

Recognition flickers in those dark brown eyes. His brow creases a fraction. He starts to lean forward in his chair.

I turn. My heels strike the hardwood too fast, too loud, but I can't slow down. The pocket doors blur past me. The hallway stretches ahead and I take it. Tonight’s gig is a cover I no longer need. Adrenaline scorches through every nerve.