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I gasp as my stomach flips.

This is futile. He's going to keep me pinned here until I tell him what he wants to hear. That's the thing I'm learning about Sam; he gets what he wants, and there's no way around it.

Steadying myself, I close my eyes so I don't have to look at him while I spill my childhood. I've seen enough shrinks over theyears to know why and how my youth gave me capital ‘T’ trauma. But still, having to admit it to him has shame creeping into my chest.

"They divorced when I was five."

"And your mom moved you to Canada?" he asks, filling in the gap.

"Montreal," I clarify.

"Did you see your father much?"

"For a few summers." I shrug, my eyes still closed. Luckily, Sam doesn't force me to look at him while I share. "But he was rarely here. Grandpa took care of me, mostly. My mom was frustrated that I would spend a whole summer here and come home dirty, having spent little time with my father. Eventually, I got old enough to say I didn't want to go, and he didn't force me."

"Did he ever come and visit?" Sam asks.

I shake my head.

"Olivia, when was the last time you saw your father?"

"His funeral."

"Before that."

"Ten, maybe?" I shrug. "It doesn't matter. I had my mom and her husband. I'm fine." It's a lie, but it's my lie that I like to spew when I tell the story of why my father is MIA.

I brace myself for the “I'm so sorry that happened to you” that people like to give when they hear something sad. But it doesn't change anything. I was tossed aside by the first man in my life. The one who's supposed to love you through anything. No wonder I clung to my first real boyfriend like he was all the oxygen I ever needed. I wanted someone to love me, and I was too dumb to see that he didn't. Maybe he never did.

I won't make that mistake again.

Sam hisses out a breath. "Look at me," he demands.

I don't want to. I don't want to see the pity behind his eyes.

"Olivia," he growls, warning me to obey.

My eyes pop open, meeting Sam's gaze.

"That was really fucking shitty of him. He doesn't deserve you."

Sam's statement cuts through me, slicing through layers and layers of armor that I've worked so hard to build up. I want to hold them in place, protect myself, but then his hand finds my face, his warm palm resting on my cheek while his finger strokes my skin. As his other hand lands on my hip, his touch feels like it's anchoring me.

I draw in a ragged breath, clinging to whatever shreds of independence remain. But with one gentle caress, Sam is cutting through every last one of them.

"Let me help you," he says. It's not a question, but not quite a demand. A plea, maybe.

I should be putting more space between myself and this man, not letting him get closer.

But for some reason, I say yes.

EIGHTEEN

Sam

It's exactly one p.m. when I arrive at the location for the meeting. We chose neutral territory outside of the French Quarter, a restaurant that's not owned by either organization. It's somewhat busy, just after lunch. Not a ton of patrons surround our table, but enough to hopefully keep either side from drawing any weapons.

John and Adrian are waiting outside for me, and we walk in together. Kade is already sitting at the long table, his righthand man, Axel Rousseau, next to him. Neither man stands when we arrive and take the seats across from them.