Some men are born hungry
for what belongs to others —
not out of need,
but simply because they can.
Power is a quiet poison.
It does not announce itself.
It just smiles,
and reaches.
.....
Samson had seen Daniel leaning over that railing and made his decision in less than a second.
He left.
He didn't wait for the elevator. Didn't acknowledge the wave, the grin, the sound of his brother calling his name across the café floor with that particular tone he used when he wanted something — light and familiar, as though the two of them were close. As though they had ever been close.
Daniel's voice followed him out anyway.
"Samson. Samson, come on—"
The door swung shut behind him.
It was the right call. It was always the right call where Daniel was concerned. Distance was the only language his brother consistently understood.
Maybe that was the wrong choice.
The thought arrived quietly, without warning, cutting through everything else in his mind like a blade through still water.
Samson sat completely still.
His hands were on the desk. The laptop glowed in front of him. The city hummed somewhere far below. None of it registered.
His mind had gone completely blank.
RACHEL ANDREWS IS DEAD.
4 HOURS AGO...
Daniel's POV
I watched Samson walk out without so much as a glance in my direction.
The door swung shut. Just like that.
I stood there for a moment, fingers wrapped around the railing, smile still on my face — because I had learned a long time ago that the smile was important. Let people think you're unbothered. Let them think nothing sticks.
But something had snapped.
I could feel it, clean and sharp, somewhere behind my ribs.
I kept the smile anyway.
My brother only ever listens, I thought, when I take his toys.
I reached into my pocket and pulled out my phone. Scrolled to a number with no name attached to it. Dialled.
They picked up on the first ring.
"I have a job for you," I said, already moving toward the stairs. "I'm going to send you a picture. Bring her to the hotel on fifth. You have one hour."
I didn't wait for a response. Hung up, pocketed the phone, and descended the stairs with a lightness in my step that hadn't been there ten minutes ago.
The afternoon felt warmer suddenly. Full of possibility.
I can't wait, I thought, pushing through the café doors into the open air, to see the look on Samson's face when I break his favourite toy.
The laugh came before I could stop it.
I didn't try very hard.
.....
The knock came sooner than I expected.
I crossed the hotel room and opened the door in nothing but my briefs, leaning against the frame. The man on the other side looked roughed up — a fresh scratch running down the side of his face, red and angry.
She had fought back then.
I noted it the way you note the weather.
Briefly, and without particular interest.
"Where is she?"
He stepped aside without a word.
And there she was.
Rachel Andrews. On her knees in the corridor, wrists bound behind her, tears running silently down her face. Her hair was dishevelled, her clothes torn at the sleeve. She kept her eyes on the floor — whether out of fear or defiance, I couldn't tell.
It didn't matter.
Something slow and satisfied settled in my chest at the sight of her.
So this is Samson's precious Rachel.
I had heard so much about her over the years. The girl his father had forbidden. The one he had chosen over his own family's wishes, until he didn't. The one that got away.
Well.
Not tonight.
I pushed the door open wider and nodded toward the room.
"Bring her inside," I said, smile already pulling at the corner of my mouth. "It's time for some fun."
The man dropped her on the bed without ceremony, and I jerked my head toward the door.
He left without a word. No questions. No curiosity. No second glance at the girl on the bed. That was what made him useful — a complete absence of conscience that made him easy to work with and easier to control. A man like that didn't gossip. Didn't develop opinions. He simply did what he was paid to do and disappeared.
I watched the door click shut behind him.
Then I turned back to her.
Rachel was fighting against the binds with everything she had, twisting and pulling, the bed frame rattling with the effort. Desperate. Frantic. Beautiful in the way that powerlessness sometimes is, I supposed.
I didn't rush.
I crossed to the table by the window, uncorked the bottle of Spanish wine I had ordered up earlier, and poured myself a glass. Took my time with it. Let her exhaust herself against the restraints while I stood there and watched the city lights through the curtain gap.
When the glass was empty, I set it down and picked up the penknife from beside the bottle.
The bed was still rattling.
I walked over slowly and leaned down close, close enough that she went rigid with fear, and I whispered it softly against the side of her face.
"Shhh. I'm here to help."
She fought harder.
I used my weight to pin her still, and with one clean motion, slid the blade beneath the gag and cut it free.
The scream that came out of her was immediate and raw — ragged and desperate, ricocheting off the walls.
I straightened up and waited.
"Help! Please — someone help me — let me go, please, please—"
"Go ahead," I said pleasantly, folding the penknife closed. "Scream as much as you like."
She looked at me then — really looked at me — searching my face for something. Mercy, perhaps. Or reason.
"No one can hear you," I told her. "The room is soundproofed. I made sure of that."
Something broke behind her eyes when I said it.
She screamed anyway. For nearly three minutes she screamed and sobbed and begged, her voice growing hoarser with every plea, until finally — inevitably — the energy ran out. She collapsed back against the bed, chest heaving, tears sliding silently into her hair.
I laughed softly.
They all behave the same way in the end, I thought. Every single one.
"Are you done?"
I asked it with genuine curiosity, looking down at her tear streaked face, her chest still heaving from the effort of screaming herself empty.
She didn't answer.
"Shall we begin then."
It wasn't a question.
I reached for her and she thrashed back to life — a second wind from somewhere, pure desperation fuelling her limbs. I let her exhaust herself for a moment, then brought my hand across her face hard enough to snap her head sideways.
The scream died in her throat.
Silence fell over the room like a curtain dropping.
Good.
I went back to what I was doing, methodical and unbothered, until the restraints on her wrists became inconvenient. I frowned at them, then flicked the penknife open and cut through the bindings in one motion. I held the blade up where she could see it clearly.
"Do anything foolish," I said quietly, "and I will put you in the ground. Nod if you understand me."
A beat passed. Then she nodded, barely perceptible, eyes fixed on the knife.
I cut the restraints from her legs next.
Then I stood back and looked at her. Took my time doing it. She lay completely still, staring at the ceiling, tears running silently down the sides of her face. Somewhere behind her eyes she had gone to a place I couldn't reach.
That was fine.
I hooked my thumbs into the waistband of my briefs and had just begun to pull them down when her leg shot out with everything she had left — a sharp, driving kick square into my chest that hit like a battering ram.
The air left my lungs in a single grunt.
I went backwards off the bed and hit the floor hard, the penknife skittering somewhere across the tiles.
For a moment I just lay there, staring at the ceiling, genuinely winded.
Then, slowly, I started to laugh.