“So it had nothing to do with me,” I muttered.

Why was I doing this to myself? Why?

“None whatsoever, Nix. I would do the same for Hunter. For Cillian. Even for your deranged mother. You are business to me, sweetheart. With a side of pleasure every now and again.”

I didn’t say another word the entire journey.

I’d already heard everything I needed to know.

Sam may have been a good underboss, but he was a terrible potential realtor.

He was being modest calling the place a cabin. It was more of a ranch, one like my brother, Cillian, owned. It was smack-dab in the middle of the woods.

The place was so remote, there wasn’t even a paved pathway for the car to get there. The Porsche trudged through gravel and sleet the last few miles to get to the front door.

Sam got out of the car and threw the door open for me. I followed him inside as he began flicking the lights on. He turned on the central heating, scanning the living room and open-plan kitchen for any signs of a break-in.

The place was freezing. First, I tended to the wound in his arm. Removed the bullet and did some light stitches. Then, I hugged myself, realizing all of a sudden that it was the middle of the night—two maybe three in the morning—and I still hadn’t had lunch, dinner, or a shower. The last thing I ate was a Nature’s Valley granola bar in the morning, and as we were all aware, those bars tended to crumble so badly you only consumed about thirty percent of them. My stomach growled, demanding to be fed, giving zero F’s about the life or death situation I’d just escaped.

“I’ll see what we have in the fridge,” Sam said without turning around, and my skin prickled with heat when I realized he must’ve heard my stomach.

As it turned out, there was absolutely nothing in the fridge.

The heating was taking too long—maybe it was broken; Sam said the place hadn’t been occupied in years—so as far as a relaxing retreat went, this resort got one star and a scathing review on Yelp.

“You’ll have to settle for something canned,” Sam clipped. “Refried beans.”

“I don’t know how to make them.” I stood on the opposite side of the room, looking down, humbled by my own privilege.

Sam spun in my direction. “You don’t know how to heat a can of refried beans?”

“I’m guessing you do it without the can.” I looked sideways, wanting to die of embarrassment.

“You made me chicken soup,” he reminded me. I nodded seriously.

“Ms. B had taught me how to make it. It’s the only thing I know how to make because it was the only thing she could keep down when she was sick. I can’t even make an omelet.”

With a growl, Sam opened a tin of refried beans using his metal key, tossing the can-shaped congealed beans into a pan. It looked about as appetizing as fresh manure and smelled similar. Still, I stood close to him as he prepared the food, mainly to catch the warmth of the fire coming from the stove. I ate straight from the pan. It was horrible, but I knew better than to complain. I imagined canned food was a luxury for him before the Brennans officially adopted him. I had no right to complain.

As for me, I suspected this was the first time I’d eaten anything from a can. I always had food made from scratch, prepared by our cook who used fresh produce, seasonal vegetables and fruit, and herbs.

Of course I didn’t share this with Sam. Already, he mockingly referred to me as a princess. There was no need to give him any more ammo.

“The heating is not working properly. I think at this point, it’s a given.” I took the pan to the sink and began to rinse it clean. The water was freezing cold. Sam sat at the dining table across from me, looking mildly entertained. I think he took joy from watching me do everyday chores. Little did he know I was my mother’s maid.

“My apologies. There’s a Waldorf Astoria across the road,” he drawled.

“Very funny. Thanks for the ride home, by the way. Highly appreciated,” I said sarcastically, drying the pan and putting it back in the cupboard where it belonged. There were some refried beans still stuck to it. Call it my little revenge. I liked to take my wins where I could get them.

“Stop being a brat.” His tone had an edge now.

“Why? It’s exactly what you expect from me,” I sniffed. “Admit it. You think the worst of me and my parents. And while I suspect you don’t hate my brothers, you are far from the realm of respecting them.”

Rather than answering me with words, Sam got up, snatched a few throws from the couch, and stomped into one of the rooms.

“Master bedroom is the first door to your right. Don’t bother trying to seduce me in the middle of the night. I fucked you out of my system and don’t need a repeat.”

I watched his back retreat, stunned with his brashness. He slammed the door behind him. I wondered why he’d given me the master bedroom and not the extra one.

Because, mon cheri, even though he says he doesn’t like you, I suspect he really quite does.

It was the first time Ms. B and I weren’t in complete agreement.

Shaking my head, I carried my purse to the master bedroom, slipping under the blankets, which were cold as ice and did nothing to warm me up.

For the next hour, I tossed and turned, staring at the patterned ceiling, wondering how they’d decorated it.

Sleep didn’t come, even when I willed it, begged for it. Adrenaline ran through my bloodstream like poison.

The brush up with the Bratva.

Sam saving me.

The way he’d rejected me before I’d even offered myself up, all while cooking me dinner and giving me the master bedroom.

Was he my protector or adversary?

I was tired of sorting through his mixed signals like it was Halloween candy, separating his actions by brand, intent, and flavor.

Whatever his reasons might be for treating me this way, I intended to keep away from him.

I was tired of chasing him around. Even though he’d done his fair share of showering me with averse, cold attention every time he wanted to get in my pants, there was always a static undercurrent between us. I was the pursuer, and he was the somewhat amused, precious prize. He tossed me around and played with me whenever he had a few minutes to burn but always went back to ignoring my existence.

This had gone on for a decade, reaching its peak these past weeks.

And I knew, with a clarity that stole my breath away, that I could spend the next decade being his casual plaything just as easily if I let it happen.

But I wasn’t a teenager anymore. I had aspirations. Dreams. Goals.

It was time to cut the cord. Not just with Sam but with everyone else in my life who assumed I’d cater to their every need and whim.

An hour and some change after I tucked myself into bed, I heard the door to the master bedroom creak open. I rolled in bed, turning toward the door.

Sam stood on the threshold, fully clothed in his suit, his hair a tousled mess, like he ran his hand through it a thousand times.

“Fine. I’ll fuck you one last time.”

I rolled onto my back, sighing as I whispered to the ceiling.

“Romeo, oh Romeo, wherefore art thou?”

He chuckled, stepping inside, interpreting my sarcasm as invitation.

Why wouldn’t he? I’d never denied him anything. Not when he intended to sleep with someone else the night I showed up at his apartment. And not at the charity event, when he brought a date who looked freakishly similar to me.