Page 18 of Birthright (Sinners of New Orleans #4)

SEVENTEEN

Olivia

S omething's wrong. My heart hammers as I reach for the apartment door and step into the stairwell.

I suck in a mouth full of oxygen, but it doesn't feel like enough.

My chest constricts and my lungs ache, fear and anxiety swirling through my brain, and I recognize all of these feelings to be pure panic.

Not again.

Hand clutched to my chest, I suck in air with quick gulps, not a single one making me feel better.

I haven't had a panic attack since I've been in New Orleans, not since my breakup with Rhett three months ago, before my father died and I left Montreal to claim my inheritance. I thought I was past this, but now I feel like my head might explode.

I'm a bad granddaughter who can't take care of my grandfather.

I'm useless.

And now I'm owned by the mafia.

"Slow your breathing." A warm hand lands on my back, accompanying the low and calm voice. He mirrors the action, inhaling slowly, and then blowing out the breath even slower.

Rage burns within me, and I push him away, not that he moves an inch. He stands tall like a statue of pure, unmovable concrete. I pound my fists against his chest, tears trailing down my cheeks.

"This is your fault!" I shout.

He catches my wrists, preventing me from hitting him any more as he tugs me into his hold. He's not the person I want comforting me, but even so, I sink into his warm embrace and sob.

Against my face, his torso lifts gently with each steadying breath. My own breathing remains uneven, but I attempt to match his measured rhythm.

Slowly, my nervous system relaxes. But the panic is quickly replaced by a new emotion. I yank my hands back from him and slap one across his face, his cheek turning the faintest shade of pink.

Time stands still between us.

Did I really just slap the boss of the New Orleans mob?

Sam lifts his hand, rubbing the spot on his cheek while I swallow roughly, preparing myself for whatever retribution he'll claim.

There's not much space on the steps, making it easy for him to pin me against the wall before I have a chance to stop him.

He grabs both of my hands, lifting them over my head as he holds them against the wall.

I feel exposed in this position, restrained while Sam's dark eyes bore into me.

"Baby girl," he purrs. "You need to use your words with me. Not these." He wiggles my hands to illustrate his point. "Now, tell me what I did that upset you."

He's much too calm, and it scares me, considering his reputation as a man who takes what he wants and kills anyone who gets in his way.

"You told him we were together." I exhale.

"Well, for one, you are mine. So that qualifies as together. And two, I was telling him what he wanted to hear, Olivia. Same as you."

I shake my head furiously. "No. My parents?—"

"Tell me." Sam crowds into my space, dipping his head so he can stare into my eyes. He's so goddamn close, my blood simmers from his heat. I'm simultaneously furious and turned on.

Stupid body.

"What did they do to you, baby girl?"

The nickname worms its way through my ears, and the part of my brain that's needy for attention turns to mush, wanting desperately to melt into his big, strong arms and let him take care of me the way he clearly wants to.

But I know from experience that the only person who can ever take care of me is me. I blink, shrugging off the nickname and the haze it's created in my brain.

"No." I shake my head. "Let me go."

"Not happening until you explain." Sam's massive frame blocks any escape, and my squirming only makes him lean harder into me, pinning me to the wall. His sculpted physique molds against my body, and when his hips make contact, I feel an unmistakable impressive hardness there.

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 the years 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.