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Sam’s lipspress down on my shoulder and linger there. “Jesus, Snow. Why did we wait so long to do that?”
I roll over onto my back to face him and burst into tears. Covering my face with my hands, I try to stop them from coming, to hold them back. But it’s no use.
“Amelia... Did I hurt you? What’s wrong? What’s going on?”
The complete confusion on his beautiful face as I pull my hands back makes me cry harder. “No,” I sniff, trying to gain control over my emotions. “You didn’t hurt me. You would never hurt me, Sam. Everyone else maybe, but never you.” I try wiping the tears away, but they come faster. “It’s just... How am I supposed to leave? I never wanted to cross this line because I knew, once I did, I’d never come back. I’d never be able to leave you.”
“What the fuck, Snow? You’re planning on running away? You’re going to leave Philadelphia?” The hurt in his tone is like taking a hammer to the chest.
It hurts my heart.
“When were you planning on leaving? Tonight? Tomorrow?” He sits up, anger lacing his tone. “You leaving me or the city?”
I can’t look at him.
Not now.
Not as the tears fall harder.
I swallow, trying to get myself under control. “I was thinking about it. After the Canada thing last month. Of course, I thought about it, Sam. But I didn’t do it.”
There’s a silence before Sam grabs my face. “Is there a ‘not yet’ at the end of that sentence? Were you really going to do that to me? To us? Before we ever had a chance?”
I grab his shirt off the floor and throw it over my head. Then I stand up, needing to put space between us. “I didn’t know...” How do I explain this? “Sam...” I plead. “I didn’t know you felt this way. I didn’t know you felt the same way I did.”
“Are you fucking kidding me, Amelia? How could you not know? How many ways do I have to show you how I feel? Doesn’t everyone say you need to show it, not just say it? Do you really need me to say it?” Sam gets out of bed slowly, burned and bruised, literally being held together by staples. He pulls his boxers back up, then moves around the bed until we’re toe to toe. Taking my hand in his, he places it over his heart the way he did last month. “Do you feel that? That’s yours. My heart is yours.”
He waits for a beat, staring down at my tear-stained face. “You’re the only person who will ever have it.” He looks at me, unsure, then drops our hands before stepping back. “And you’re planning on leaving?”
How do I make him understand? “No, Sam. I wasn’t exactly planning. But there’s a part of me that’s always ready to leave, always prepared to run. Because that’s my life.” He doesn’t look convinced, but I push on, desperate for him to believe me. “So, yes, the thought crossed my mind. I was scared. If I’m a target, then I’m putting anyone near me in the crossfire. I would never want to do that to the people I love.” The words are out of my mouth before I think better of it.
Before I realize what I just said.
Sam looks like I slapped him across the face. “Right. Because if someone’s gunning for you, someone else can end up dead.” He moves across the room and pulls a pair of sweats out of his drawer.
Shit. I hadn’t thought about the guilt he’s working through over his father’s death.
I was too caught up in my own concerns to even consider that.
“Sam... It’s not your fault.” Damnit.
He walks out of the room, slamming the door behind him so hard it bounces off the frame. Deafeningly yelling, “Everyone who doesn’t live here, get the fuck out of my house. If you’re on duty, go stay in the guardhouse.”
I move to the door and watch him pound down the stairs, praying that he doesn’t tear open his back the way that I just tore us to shreds.
* * *
Sometime around midnight, I work up the courage to go hunting for Sam. Tiptoeing down the stairs and through the hall, I don’t see anyone. It’s quiet. Eerily so. Sebastian’s door is closed. Nonna’s door is closed. There’s no one sitting in the living room and no one talking in the kitchen.
No sign of life.
The house’s heartbeat that’s been rapidly pulsing for the last few days has stopped.
It’s sleeping.
With butterflies dancing a jig in my stomach, I raise my hand to knock on Sam’s office door but hear him tell me to come in before I get the chance.
When I peek my head in through the door, it’s to find a wall of monitors sitting on Sam’s desk, hiding his face.
