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I take one step closer to the desk. “A reminder.”

Cain tilts his head.

“I know what he uses people for,” I say. “I know what the foundation is. I know what he thinks I am.”

“Do you?”

I force myself not to react. “Yes.”

“You’re angry,” he says.

“I’m lucid.”

He exhales sharply. “You’ve always confused those two things.”

“And you’ve always confused cruelty with intelligence.”

He laughs quietly. “You came here to argue about Father’s principles?”

“He has no principles.”

“Everyone has principles. Father’s are simply less sentimental than most.”

“And yours?”

“My principles?” Cain glances at the chessboard. “I don’t think I have to illustrate them.”

“Tell me where Samson is,” I say.

Something shifts behind Cain’s eyes. So subtle most people would miss it. But I’m not most people.

“Samson?” Cain repeats.

I step closer. “Where is he?”

Cain reaches for a glass of what appears to be bourbon but doesn’t drink. “Samson is fine.”

“Fine where?” I ask.

“Being held.”

My body goes cold. “Held.”

“For his own protection.”

Caged? You can’t cage a beast. At least not for long.

The idea of our brother, the fist, contained somewhere by Cain’s order or Father’s, maybe both, is almost laughable.

But if he—like me—allowed the love of a woman to make him vulnerable…

Rage moves through me, but it will do me no good. I keep my face still. “Protection from what?” I ask.

“Himself, mostly.”

“You don’t get to decide that.”

Cain’s gaze lifts lazily. “Don’t I?”