Chapter 14
S ilas doesn’t answer my question about the address, opting instead to slip seamlessly into traffic between two cars. His movements are fluid, unhurried, like the city and its chaos submit to him. The frustration I’d sparked seems to dissolve as he settles into his seat, one wrist draped casually over the top of the wheel. He fits so perfectly in a car like this. Sleek, powerful, and undeniably expensive. My gaze lingers for a beat too long, and I quickly avert my eyes to the passenger window to keep myself from staring.
“Any clue what all that’s about?” I ask, nodding toward the endless stretch of brake lights and the flicker of emergency vehicles up ahead.
His lips twitch, not quite a smile but close. “Your guess is as good as mine.”
“Well, it can’t be too bad if Davey didn’t run into the house like a bat out of hell,” I reply, leaning back and letting my eyes wander over the car’s pristine, dark interior. Everything is polished and smooth, impossibly refined. Curiosity gets the better of me, and I trace my fingertips over the dash. It’s just as soft and luxurious as it looks.
Silas breathes out a quiet laugh, the sound low and warm. “He’s that easy to read, huh?”
“There’s nothing subtle about Davey when it comes to your sister,” I smirk, folding my hands in my lap. Silas nods in my peripheral vision, focus shifting back to the road as we crawl forward in the traffic.
“He loves her a lot,” he says, as if stating an undeniable truth.
“No kidding,” I snort. “It’s sweet, though. She deserves someone who looks at and thinks of her that way.”
His hand drifts through his already perfectly tousled hair, pushing it back as he exhales, the sound thoughtful. “Agreed,” he says finally. “Natalie is the best of all of us.”
I purse my lips at his words, my mind racing. She’s the best of all of them? His family? Is that because she’s not involved in whatever secrets or schemes he might be hiding? I don’t dare push, though the temptation to dig deeper is a gnawing itch I can’t quite scratch.
“She was telling me how much you both have been working,” I venture instead, testing the waters. “Any chance you could tell Davey to get home in time for dinner a few days a week?”
“I do. Often.” His chuckle is humorless, and there’s a sharpness to his tone that catches me off guard. “That man is perpetually worried about work.”
“Not the worst trait to have in your Director of Security,” I reply lightly and watch the pedestrians on the sidewalk. They move briskly, heads down and jackets pulled tight against the cool night air.
“No, it isn’t,” he agrees, but there’s an edge to his voice now, something that feels heavier than the conversation warrants. “But I also don’t want work to be the reason my sister confides in new… friends about her marriage.”
I turn my face to stare out at the slow-moving traffic. Even though I intrigue him, his guard is still up. And I can't blame him for that.
“She only told me she misses him,” I say after a beat. “But I get what you mean. I figured you knowing was better than nothing.”
The silence that follows feels stretched too thin, but I don’t press. This isn’t the battle I want to fight, and it certainly isn’t the hill I want to die on. Eventually, the tension eases, and when he glances at me again, his eyes are softer, less guarded.
“Thanks,” he murmurs, the word so quiet it almost gets lost in the hum of the engine.
“Sure,” I whisper back, a tentative truce settling between us.
When he says nothing else, I reach for the radio, flipping through Silas’s pre-set channels until I land on a nineties alternative rock station playing “Wonderwall.” The familiar strumming of the acoustic guitar fills the car, and I lean back against the headrest, closing my eyes. This song always reminds me of one of the few high school dances I could afford to scrape enough money together to attend.
I’d been so nervous to dance with Danny O’Neil, palms sweaty against the back of his crisp, black collared shirt. I was sure he’d notice, but if he did, he didn’t say anything. He just smiled that silly grin of his the whole time as we swayed awkwardly under the dim glow of the Christmas lights strung haphazardly across the gym ceiling. When the slow song ended, I bolted to the bathroom to wipe my hands on the paper towels, mortified. Later, he kissed me on the cheek, and I walked home practically skipping, clutching that memory like a treasure through the turbulent years that followed.
“I didn’t take you as an Oasis fan,” Silas’s voice cuts through the haze of my thoughts, snapping me back to the present. I blink, the glow of passing headlights illuminating the faint smile playing on his lips.
“My dad wasn’t good for much,” I say without thinking, my tone softened by the unexpected vulnerability of the memory. Then, realizing I might’ve said too much, I quickly tack on, “But he had great taste in music.”
To my relief, Silas doesn’t pry. Instead, he nods and says simply, “Alternative rock is my favorite, too.” His tone is appreciative, and I’m grateful for the reprieve.
Laughing lightly, I tease, “I wasn’t expecting that. I figured your parents only let you listen to Mozart and Bach.”
A hint of amusement tugs at the corner of his mouth. “You’re not entirely wrong. But I went to boarding school, so they couldn’t do much about it.”
“Wow, a little rebel,” I say with exaggerated mockery. “Did you also eat candy after brushing your teeth?”
He rolls his eyes, but the slight darkening of his smile doesn’t go unnoticed. “That smart mouth,” he breathes, as though he’s speaking more to himself than to me.
“What about it?” I taunt, unable to resist poking at the crack in his composure. I lean back in my seat, my gaze fixed on him. Though he doesn’t look directly at me, I can feel his attention like a physical force.
“It never knows when to stop,” he replies, his tone cool but with an edge of challenge.
“There isn’t much that would make it stop,” I counter, pushing just a little further.
Without warning, Silas veers sharply to the right, peeling away from the crowded roadway and onto a side street. The sudden shift presses me into the seat, my stomach lurching as the car accelerates. My fingers instinctively clutch at anything I can grab; one hand gripping the door pull, the other landing on the center console. Silas doesn’t slow. He weaves seamlessly between cars, the engine roaring with each turn, buildings and streetlights blurring into streaks of color.
The rational part of my brain registers the danger, the recklessness of his driving, but another part of me—the part I don’t want to acknowledge—can’t help but feel exhilarated. My pulse thrums, and a heat unfurls low in my stomach, spreading through my body like a tidal wave.
Why does this feel like more than just adrenaline?
I clamp down on the thought, willing myself to focus. My breaths come fast and shallow, but I force my face to remain calm, refusing to give him the satisfaction. This is a game to him, a test to see if I’ll yield like all the others who’ve likely sat in this very seat. He won’t get that from me. I don’t care how captivating he looks with his wild eyes and easy control of the wheel.
Finally, the car jerks to a stop at a red light, the engine humming in the sudden stillness. My chest heaves, but I fight to steady my breathing, nostrils flaring as I exhale slowly. The radio is still playing softly in the background, the only other sound is the faint ringing in my ears.
Silas doesn’t move. He watches me intently, gaze dragging down to my chest and lingering for a moment too long before snapping back to my face. The crimson glow of the traffic light casts harsh shadows across his features, highlighting the curve of his jaw and the smirk that tugs at his lips, dark and dangerous.
My fingers ache from the grip I’ve maintained on the door pull and the center console. It’s only then that I realize my left hand is wrapped tightly around Silas’s forearm, his muscles flexing beneath my touch. The realization sends a jolt through me, and my grip falters, fingers brushing against the hard lines of his arm before I pull away. His gaze flickers down, catching the movement, and something in his eyes shifts that makes my breath hitch.
The pounding of blood in my ears hasn’t stopped, but I somehow manage to find my voice. “Who taught you to drive like that? Vin Diesel?”
A noise escapes from Silas’s throat—a mix between a laugh and a bark. The sound is so unexpected that it startles me, and before I can process it, he reaches over, his fingers wrapping firmly around my wrist. My breath catches as he pulls it toward himself and presses his thumb against the inside of my wrist.
“What are you doing?” I snap, trying to tug my hand back, but his grip tightens ever so slightly, keeping me in place.
He doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, his focus sharpens, the corners of his mouth twitching as he counts the beats of my pulse. The seconds stretch unbearably long, the sensation of his thumb resting against my skin heightening the fire flowing through my veins. I don’t know what’s worse, the intimate hold or the fact that my heart is pounding so hard I’m sure he can feel every erratic thrum.
When he finally lets out a low chuckle, it’s rich and infuriatingly smug. “Not as tough as you let on,” he remarks, his nearly black eyes cutting to mine. The fingers at my wrist linger for a second longer, running softly down the side of my arm before falling away completely.
The moment of contact leaves a jolt of electricity in its wake, and my head spins, both from the sensation and his sheer audacity. I open my mouth, poised to retort, but the light turns green, and before I can utter a single word, he forces the car back into motion just enough to make my head snap back.
“All The Small Things” begins playing over the speakers, and I can’t think of anything to say that won’t come out breathy and nervous. My mind is a tangle of scattered thoughts, caught somewhere between irritation, adrenaline, and something far more confusing.
I steal a glance at him, trying to steady myself. Silas looks as calm as ever, his posture relaxed as he shifts gears and navigates the nearly empty road with precision. But there’s a hint of a smirk playing at the edge of his lips, and I realize with growing frustration that he knows exactly how much he’s gotten under my skin.
Determined not to let him win, I cross my arms over my chest and lean back in my seat, feigning indifference. “You’re insufferable, you know that?”
The smirk grows, his eyes flicking toward me for a split second before returning to the road. “So I’ve been told.”
I roll my eyes, my pulse finally beginning to slow, though the warmth in my cheeks lingers. “What exactly was the point of that little stunt? Are you trying to give me a heart attack or prove something?”
He shrugs, the movement effortless. “Maybe I just wanted to see how you’d handle it.”
“And?” I challenge, arching an eyebrow, though my voice is still slightly shaky.
His smile deepens. “You’re still here, aren’t you?”
I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from snapping back, unwilling to give him the gratification of riling me further. Instead, I turn my gaze out the window, watching the city blur past, though my attention is painfully aware of every subtle shift in his demeanor.
The steady rhythm of the streetlights casts alternating shadows over Silas’s profile, sharpening the lines of his face and creating an almost cinematic contrast. His voice cuts through the quiet, casual and confident. “I went to Columbia, by the way.”
I blink at him, caught completely off guard. “Huh?”
His white teeth flash as he smiles, a flicker of amusement dancing across his face. The cold, calculated Silas evaporates, replaced by the flirtatious, easygoing man who had greeted me at Natalie’s doorstep earlier. It’s dizzying how effortlessly he switches between personas.
“You never gave me the third degree when we were having lunch a few weeks ago,” he says, voice teasing. “Since you clearly have no interest in who I am, I’m assuming you still haven’t looked into me,” he pauses, turning slightly toward me, his tongue sweeping over his bottom lip. “Or have you?”
My eyes widen. Is this guy for real? “We weren’t having lunch; you interrupted mine . And that’s what you’re thinking about right now?”
“That’s not a no.”
I open my mouth, ready to rebuff him, but nothing comes out. Again. The satisfaction in his expression grows as he catches my hesitation, and with a huff, I cross my arms over my chest before turning toward the window. The heat pumping from the car vents feels stifling now.
Does he have a personality disorder?
“You held me hostage at a charity auction less than a week ago,” I finally reply, trying to regain control of the conversation. “I have every right to look into my kidnapper.”
“Is that how you describe being wined and dined as the date of the host?” he counters, turning onto a main road. My apartment building is just a few blocks away now.
“Wined and dined? That’s generous,” I scoff. “I spent most of the night with your sister and brother-in-law, who hates me, while you talked business with the other rich men in Chicago.”
“You didn’t seem to mind.” His smirk sharpens. “Didn’t you say I did a fantastic job of leaving you alone that night?” he adds, his tone overconfident.
He’s not wrong—I’d give him that much. Silas had been perfectly polite, letting me roam freely most of the evening. But now? Now I have no idea which version of him is the real one. Is he the composed, charming host, or the reckless maniac who races through Chicago streets? Is this just an elaborate act to keep me on my toes?
As my building comes into view, I instinctively reach for my seatbelt, but before I can unbuckle it, Silas’s hand lands on mine, his calloused fingers pressing lightly against my skin. I glance up at him from under my lashes, but he keeps his gaze firmly on the road, his brows furrowed with a seriousness I wasn’t expecting.
“Wait until I’m parked,” he commands. As if I’m going to open the door to tuck and roll.
I gape at him. “That’s funny, coming from the guy who just Tokyo Drifted across the city.”
The corner of his mouth twitches, his smirk impossible to hide. “You seemed to like it plenty.”
Before I can argue, I notice the subtle slide of his fingers across the back of my hand. A deliberate, lingering touch. My brain feels deep-fried, unable to process his many moods or my body’s infuriating response to his presence. The car slows as we pull up to my building, and he releases my hand, leaving my skin cold where his warmth had been.
I fumble with the seatbelt and turn to grab the door handle, but I can’t stop the words that tumble out of my mouth. “You seriously think I liked that?”
The sharp edges of my voice are dulled by breathlessness, and I hate that I’ve revealed even a sliver of how rattled I am. A cool gust of air hits me as I push the door open, grounding me for a moment. I step out into the night, desperate to escape the suffocating pull of this man.
But I can’t help myself. I turn back toward him, determined to have the last word. His face is bathed in the soft light spilling from my building, his eyes shimmering with that dangerous, knowing glint. He leans lazily, one arm draped behind the passenger headrest, and his curls frame his face in a way that makes him look effortlessly disarming.
“Let’s not pretend,” he murmurs, his voice low and intimate. He cocks his head to the side, his smile a razor-sharp tease. “You liked that as much as I did.”
The prickle of heat rises on the back of my neck, but I set my jaw and glare at him. Without another word, I slam the door shut, my boots clicking angrily against the pavement as I stalk toward the entrance.
From behind me, his voice rings out, playful and dripping with arrogance. “I don’t like liars, Ms. Page.”
I glance back briefly to see him ducking toward the now open window to see me, my own smirk curling at the corners of my mouth.
If that’s the case, you’re in for a real treat, Mr. Wells.