Page 12 of Birthright (Sinners of New Orleans #4)

ELEVEN

Olivia

I wake up in a strange bedroom. It takes a moment before the events of yesterday come flooding back to me.

I'm a prisoner.

At least, that's what I think I am. Sam never said as much, and after he led me to this room, I ended up crying before passing out on the overly comfortable bed. So I haven't checked the door to see if I'm locked in yet.

I feel groggy and disgusting. I've been wearing the same clothes since I saw him in that alley. My gut churns at the memory. I wish I would’ve never taken out the trash.

But the idea of Joey being in my place doesn't sit any better with me. There's no way to know if Sam would’ve taken Joey as a prisoner or if he would’ve just killed him.

Releasing a heavy breath, I push myself upright to survey my new prison.

A bed dominates the center, flanked by pristine walls.

Three entrances break up the space — one reveals a private bathroom, while two remain shut.

I recall entering through one of the closed doors.

This place is enormous. The hood prevented me from seeing the exterior or our approach, but once Sam removed the covering, I realized we were inside the biggest house I've ever seen.

I touch the sheets. They're soft, probably a high thread count, and I'm covered with a plush duvet.

It's not that I grew up poor, at least not when I was in Montreal with my mom and stepdad.

My mother's second husband is wealthy. We had everything we needed and many of them with name brands, unlike when I spent the summers with my dad, wearing outdated clothes and socks with little holes. But it was nothing like this.

Tossing off the duvet, I stand from the bed, making my way to the bathroom first. The en suite is twice the size of the one in my apartment that's shared with my grandfather.

My chest pangs as I think of him. He's all alone in that apartment, probably confused and unable to care for himself.

I assume after the men took me that Joey would have stayed and helped out, but that's not his job.

Another ache in my chest forms. Joey probably thinks I'm dead. That those men dragged me from our apartment and killed me before I even had a chance to talk to Sam. I scrub a hand over my face. He probably doesn't know what to do with the bar or my grandfather.

I need to get out of here.

Back out in the room, I pull open the heavy curtains on the far wall, exposing a view of what I assume is the backyard.

There's a huge in-ground pool with an attached hot tub, the water crystal clear and inviting in the sunlight.

Beyond that, beautiful gardens stretch out in meticulously maintained rows, bursting with colorful flowers and perfectly trimmed hedges.

I unlock the latch on the window and push the glass open. So I'm not trapped. Tentatively, I cross the room and try the handle on the door. It twists, seemingly unlocked.

I look between the two, considering my options.

I'm on the second story, I think. If I take the window, I’ll need to scale the side of the house, and I'm not sure what's out there.

If I take the door, I'll probably run into my captor or his guards.

I'm not sure how likely I am to succeed in either scenario, but the window calls to me.

At least, that way, I'm outside and not trapped in this house.

Sucking in a deep breath, I swing my leg over the windowsill and into the fresh air.

My second leg follows and, suddenly, I'm perched on the ledge of the second-story window. The Louisiana air warms my skin and promises of freedom tug at my heart. Below me, the manicured lawn of Sam’s estate stretches like an endless green sea and the sun reflects off the surface of the large pool.

My heart races, adrenaline surging through my veins as I prepare for my escape.

There's a branch jutting out of the nearest tree, and I decide my best plan is to try to jump and grab it.

From there, I can use the tree to climb the rest of the way down.

I steal a glance back into the room, the shadow of Sam's presence looming in my mind.

He said he was keeping me. But after he discarded me in this room, he never gave me any rules or instructions. Who knows where he even is?

The best thing for me to do is leave. Negotiating with him didn't work, and I can't stay trapped here with my grandfather at home.

Taking a deep breath, I grip the window frame tightly, my palms slick with nerves, and leap.

My fingers grasp around the tree limb, the bark rough on my palms. I exhale a whoosh of air and try to steady my breathing.

Shimmying to the tree, I wrap my legs around the trunk and slowly work my way down.

Finally, I land softly in the grass, my feet on steady ground. A smile lifts my cheeks. I did it.

And then I hear the rhythmic sound of two hands slapping together. Clapping.

Spinning around, I find Sam behind me. My face flushes red with embarrassment, stomach sinking to my feet. How did I not hear him? How long has he been watching me? Worse is the fear that tugs at my nerve endings. What's going to happen now?

"That was quite impressive." He's wearing dark dress slacks and a crisp white button-down.

The top few buttons are undone, and the sleeves are rolled up, giving me a glimpse of his muscled forearms. "But where do you think you're going?

" There’s a sinister edge to his deep voice, and while we both know that I was trying to run away, Sam lets the silence linger between us, waiting for me to admit it.

"I need to go home." I cross my arms over my chest and stand tall, refusing to be intimidated by this gangster.

My display only makes Sam laugh. Three long strides and he's in front of me.

I take a step back and he takes another forward.

My spine hits the tree, the rough bark snagging against my t-shirt, and Sam cages me in with both arms. With his face mere inches from mine, I can smell his scent — bourbon and spice.

It invades my nostrils, overtaking my senses.

"For what?" Sam tilts his head with the question, eyebrows raised. The action feels like he's mocking me, because we both know why I want to go home, and we both know he's not going to let me. And still, we do this dance.

Closing my eyes, I inhale a breath and summon all of my strength. "My grandfather is alone. I don't think you understand how dangerous that is for someone in his condition?—"

"I hired a nurse," he retorts quickly. Definitively. No longer a question of if I want him to hire a nurse. He just did it.

"I told you I didn't want you to hire a nurse." I'm barely holding myself together, already flustered and angry, the emotions rising in my throat.

"And I told you that you were staying here. You need someone to take care of your grandfather, so I hired someone. It's done." Sam isn't worked up the way I am. He's eerily calm. His words matter of fact. It only seems to piss me off further.

I inherited my temper from my father — at least that's what my mother told me.

And right now, it's heating my blood stream until it roars to a full boil.

I clench my teeth, my molars grinding together in a way I know will cause me pain later.

My fingernails bite into my palms, leaving little crescent moon indents.

My foot lifts and shoots down, checkered Vans stomping on the fancy — probably a name brand I've never heard of — shoe Sam is wearing.

Those dark eyes light up, and for a moment, we stand there, with me caged against the tree, breathing heavily, and him staring deeply into my eyes.

"Brat." He doesn't say it like an insult; he almost sounds excited. And before I can retort and tell him I'm not a brat, that he's just an asshole, I'm being lifted. He slings me over his shoulder like I weigh no more than a sack of potatoes.

"Hey!" I shout, my fists pounding on his back. "Put me down, you ogre!"

Sam chuckles, a deep, throaty sound that sparks the butterflies that live inside me, causing them to flap their wings wildly. Traitors .

"It's time we set some ground rules, Olivia."

I don't like where this is heading, and I refuse to give up. My fists continue their assault the entire way into the house.

I'm not sure what Sam's plan is with me, but I do know one thing.

I'm not going down without a fight.