Page 24 of Stealing Cinder

Instead, my palm cups the swell of her belly and warmth bleeds through the thin fabric into my skin. A flutter pushes back against my hand. Small. Insistent. The contract downstairs, Edgar's signature, the peace agreement, none of it matters anymore.

Cinder's breath comes fast and shallow, her chest rising in quick pulls that lift the fabric of the halter top with each inhale. Her pale blue eyes are wide, the silver sheen in them catching the lamplight as she stares up at me with an expression torn between relief and fury. The dark wig has shifted, exposing a sliver of blonde near her hairline. She smells different than I remember. The warm vanilla is buried under industrial kitchen soap and cheap perfume that is not hers.

But the heat of her skin under my hand is exactly the same. So is the tremor that rolls through her body when I press closer.

Her gaze breaks from mine and darts to the safe behind her. The gun gleams on its velvet interior. The matte black finish absorbs the lamplight rather than reflecting it, and her fingers twitch toward the weapon.

"I need what's in that safe, Samuel."

"You need to get out of this house."

"You don't understand." She shifts her weight toward the open panel, her hand reaching for the gun. "That weapon is the reason I'm here tonight. It's evidence."

"Evidence of what?"

"My father's murder."

The words hit low and sharp. I process them against everything I know about Vincent Ashford's death. Random mugging. Wrong side of town. Case closed.

Except his daughter is standing in a dead man's study dressed as a caterer, five months pregnant, pulling a gun from a hidden safe. Nothing about this is random.

Her fingers close around the grip and she pulls the Beretta free. The weight of it settles in her hand and her shoulders drop a fraction, the relief visible in the way her spine loosens.

"Now we can go."

I hook an arm under her knees and lift.

"Samuel, I can walk."

"You can walk when we're outside. Of this cursed place." I carry her toward the study door, away from the open safe and whatever else this house is hiding. "I don't know the full picture of what the fuck is going on here, but I aim to find out."

She stops fighting me. Goes rigid in my arms instead, which is worse. I've carried enough stubborn women to know the difference between giving up and plotting. She's plotting. The Beretta rests against her belly, her finger straight along the frame.

Furious eyes meet mine briefly. "This place isn’t cursed. This is my father's house. The only curse it has is the people living in it."

I stop at the top of the staircase. The curved banister stretches down into the grand foyer below, the walnut wood polished to a dark sheen by decades of hands gripping the rail. My grip on her tightens.

“You’re Vincent Ashford’s daughter.”

I look down at her. She stares back, jaw tight, the muscle in her cheek flexing beneath the ridiculous dark wig.

"You don't believe me?"

"I have trust issues when it comes to vanishing princesses. But on this, yes."

Her lashes drop for a half second before her chin lifts higher. Fire replaces the flicker of guilt I caught in her expression.

"I promised because I meant it. I wanted to come back.” She pauses and bites at her inner lip. “But I couldn’t."

"We’ll circle back to that later." I hold her gaze a beat longer than I should. Questions can wait. Getting her out of this house cannot.

We make it four steps from the bottom before heavy footsteps pound across the foyer's hardwood. Edgar rounds the corner from the hallway with the stride of an owner surveying his kingdom, bourbon in hand, his unbuttoned collar revealing a thick gold chain he wears against sun-starved skin. His eyes sweep from my face to Cinder in my arms to the Beretta in her grip. Recognition flashes over his expression. He knows that gun.

He closes the distance in three steps and grabs Cinder by the wrist. Not the empty one. The one holding the weapon. He yanks hard enough to wrench her from my arms and her body pitches forward. Her free hand slaps against the walnut banister and her fingers curl tight around the smooth wood, stopping herself an inch before her face hits the staircase. The Beretta tears loose from her grip on the twist. It hits the foyer floor with a heavy crack, bounces once against the hardwood, and skitters across the polished surface to disappear under the chest of drawers pressed against the far wall.

Cinder's eyes track the gun's path. Her whole body jerks toward the furniture.

"No." The word rips from her throat, raw and guttural.