Page 65 of Allegiant

My mind flicks to images of Samson, his bare chest flexing as he hovers over me, his cock tunneling in and out of my hole, his gaze focused, his pupils dilated. Thank fuck his lack of rhythm on the dance floor doesn’t translate into the bedroom. “Yeah, he doesn’t.”

“But I heard you’re a dancer?”

I eye him. “Has Samson told you everything about me?”

“I just know enough. He’s very private. It’s like pulling teeth.” He grins at me, friendly and kind, and then he stops in front of a door, one with a large gash in the frame. It’s almost like something sharp landed there. “Ah, here we are.”

Ansel pushes the door open and steps through. I smile as I step in after him. The space looks almost purposefully rugged, with dark walls and heavy materials. It’s large enough to fit a huge bed on one side, directly across from a large stone fireplace. On the walls is an axe collection, and on an end table is a collection of hunting knives.

“Well, this is exactly what I expected,” I say as I trail a hand along a whiskey decanter on a sideboard.

“It is very Samson.”

“It is.”

“I guess he has an affinity for knives.”

“And axes. That’s his favorite weapon of choice.”

I stop and pick a knife up off the table. The hilt is ornately decorated, kind of like the one he carries around. “Do all rich people have weapons of choice?”

Ansel laughs once more. “Yeah, I know. It’s so weird. Cade loves medieval torture devices. It’s a whole thing.”

“Is it because they’re bored and have nothing else to do?”

His eyes meet mine, and an emotion I can’t place moves through them. “Something like that.”

Opening a drawer, I see a stack of pictures inside, most turning sepia and curled around the edges. I can’t help but reach for the top one, one that features six young boys, each wearing freshly pressed school uniforms—ones you’d expect to see on kids who attend a private or boarding school.

I lift it higher and clock Samson almost immediately. He’s not smiling. Well, none of them are. They’re all serious, each standing facing the camera, lips in thin lines, hands against their sides. To the side is an older man standing there, looking just as stoic.

“Oh, wow.” Ansel is peering over my shoulder, reaching for the photo. “God, they’re so young.”

“This the brothers?”

“Yeah.” He holds it a little closer and then points to a boy on the right, one corner of his lip pulled up to the side. His hand is at his side, but as we peer closer, I see that he’s flipping the bird. It’s not directed at the camera, but the sentiment is there.

“That’s Cade,” Ansel says with a laugh. “Always a menace. Always rebelling.”

“They don’t look happy.” I don’t like that. No child should be as sad as these boys are.

Ansel sighs. “They weren’t. Their dad was…he was terrible.”

“Samson said as much.”

“How much has he told you?” Ansel asks, returning the picture to the drawer.

“Not a lot. I don’t really know much about Samson at all. He just keeps…showing up.”

Ansel laughs. “They all have a habit of doing that.”

He reaches inside and pulls the rest of the pictures out, and the two of us flip through them. Most are pictures of benign things, like different kinds of knives, bugs, and a few flowers. But there are other pictures with his brothers scattered in there. And one of a woman who has a kind smile.

“That was their mom. She died. That’s when everything changed.” He rolls his lips through his teeth. “I’m not sure how much to tell you, but just know that they haven’t had it easy. It explains a lot.”

Before seeing that first photo, I might’ve found that hard to believe, given their wealth. But then again, sometimes things look nice on the outside and are chaotic within. I’m not in a place to judge.

When we’ve gone through the stack, Ansel takes it from me and places it back in the drawer, closing it softly. Then he nods toward the door. “We probably shouldn’t have done that, but I’m nosy.”