Chapter 19
“S carlett,” a low, velvety voice says near my ear, breaking through the dense fog of my dreamless sleep. “I need you to wake up.”
Almost as soon as I surface, the pain follows, spreading like wildfire. Pressure pounds behind my eyes, the throbbing in my forehead intensifying with every relentless heartbeat. I inhale shakily, but the air feels like knives against my raw throat.
Where am I?
Blinking doesn’t help. Something is covering my eyes, pressing lightly against my skin. A prickling sensation starts in my fingers and toes, crawling up my limbs as my body wakes up piece by piece. Panic rises in my chest.
Did the man come back? Did he find me in the lobby and take me somewhere else? Am I somewhere I’d recognize so he blindfolded me?
Dread pools in the pit of my stomach, cold and heavy. My breaths come faster, quicker, teetering on the edge of hyperventilation.
“Easy,” the voice speaks again, softer now, but firm. There’s a weight on my chest, but it doesn’t feel threatening. It’s grounding, almost comforting. “It’s okay. You’re safe.”
I know that voice. It’s the same one that whispered to me on the steps of his mansion weeks ago, pulling me back from the edge.
Silas.
Relief surges through me, bursting out in a strangled, half-choked cough. My body relaxes all at once, sinking further into what I now realize is a soft, cushioned surface. The panic ebbs, giving way to awareness—the cool, damp cloth on my face, the absence of bindings or restraints, and the unmistakable cedarwood cologne that lingers in the air.
Hands trembling, I pull the cloth off my eyes, flinching at the brightness that stabs at them like tiny needles. With a curse, I throw the back of my hand over my face, accidentally bumping my forehead. The pain feels like a lightning strike, and a whimper escapes before I can stop it. My head feels like it’s splitting in two.
“Should’ve warned you that might hurt,” Silas mutters, almost to himself. His voice is close, like he’s sitting right beside me, but I don’t have the energy to check.
Eyes closed, throat raw, I croak, “How long have I been out?”
“About half an hour.” His voice softens further as I feel the faintest touch running tenderly over the top of my head and through my tangled hair. “Are you able to sit up? I have water.”
Somehow, I manage to comply, though it feels like my entire body is moving through sand. Every motion is slow and excruciating. Silas braces my upper back with a steady hand, guiding me upright with surprising care. My head feels impossibly heavy, like I’m balancing a brick on my shoulders.
The second my feet touch the floor, I hold out my hand instinctively. A bottle of water is placed in my palm. I don’t even check to see if the cap is off before tipping it toward my lips. To my relief, it is. Cool water streams down my throat, soothing the rawness. It’s heavenly. I force myself to sip slowly, knowing that guzzling it all at once will only make me sick.
Lowering the bottle, I cautiously blink. It takes several tries before I can tolerate the brightness. My head still aches, but the pain is manageable now, a dull throb instead of a sharp spike. Each blink sharpens the room around me—its dark wood accents, rich earth tones, and meticulous organization. This isn’t a hospital.
This is Silas’s office.
I take in the sprawling bookshelves that dominate the far wall, neatly arranged with leather-bound volumes and labeled file boxes. The large desk in front of them is pristine, not a single item out of place. A wall of windows to my left, partially obscured by light-filtering shades, offers a breathtaking view of Millennium Park and Lake Michigan. The furniture is sleek and modern—a long, comfortable couch where I’m sitting, flanked by two cigar chairs and a sturdy metal coffee table.
My gaze shifts to the man beside me. Silas sits on the edge of the couch, elbows resting on his knees, hands clasped loosely in front of him. His white button-down is slightly wrinkled, his tie loosened but still in place. There’s a faint smear of blood where his pec and shoulder meet, as if my head rested there at some point. His usual calm, polished appearance is marred only by the tension in his forehead and the slight curve of his lips pressed into a thin line. Those mocha eyes, however, are what hold my attention. They’re filled with something I rarely see directed at me: concern.
He doesn’t speak, doesn’t push. He just watches, waiting for me to come back to myself.
“Where’s Natalie?” I rasp, voice shaky.
Silas carefully takes the water bottle from my trembling hands, capping it and placing it on the coffee table in front of us. He moves like every motion is calculated to steady the moment. To steady me. “She’s here,” he says evenly. “Davey took her to his office so she could calm down. You needed to rest before Doctor Carrow got here.”
My eyebrows furrow, and the sharp movement sends a wave of pain through my forehead. I wince. “Who?”
“Our family physician,” he explains with a slight shrug. The casual tone almost masking the tension coiled in his body. “He’ll be here soon.”
“Your family physician?” I echo in disbelief and clear my throat. “That feels… excessive. An ambulance to the emergency room would have been fine.”
I’m not even sure if that’s true. My gun-toting kidnapper probably already thought of that. If he’s brave enough, he’ll call Peter to figure out which hospital I checked into. Or worse, he’s already racing to find me before Peter realizes what happened. Either way, I probably wouldn’t have been safe there.
Silas’s jaw ticks, his earlier patience replaced with something sharper. His knuckles faintly whitening as his hands tighten on his knees before he forces himself to relax. “Scarlett,” he says, his voice low, each word deliberate. “You were passed out in my lobby, bleeding, asking for me. Do you really think I would throw you in an ambulance to be dumped at some random hospital?” He pauses, his jaw working, then exhales through his nose, clearly reigning in the fraying edges of his temper. When he speaks again, his voice softens. “Dr. Carrow is always available. And he’s the best in the city.”
My cheeks burn with embarrassment. My intentions had been good. I truly wanted to make sure Natalie didn’t come looking for me, but that doesn’t change the fact I made a scene. Not only had I stumbled in looking like death warmed over, but I’d also begged for the most important man in the building to come save me in front of God knows how many people.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, my gaze dropping to my lap. My voice feels small, like it belongs to someone else. “I’ll pay to have the couch cleaned, and I’ll apologize to your receptionists.”
In an instant, Silas no longer at a distance but sitting directly in front of me on the edge of the coffee table, one knee wedged between mine, the other bracketing the outside of my left leg.
With a warm and steady hand, Silas tilts my chin until my eyes meet his. The touch is gentle, but there’s a tension radiating from him that feels like a physical force. “Do you really think I’m worried about anything besides you right now?” His eyes burning into mine, searching. A small, crooked smile tugs at the corner of his mouth, though it doesn’t quite reach the rest of his features. “The couch, Mr. Harris, and Mrs. Voss are the least of my concerns.”
The intensity in his expression is almost too much, and I lean back instinctively, trying to create space to catch my breath. His hand drops and finds a new home on my knee, the movement so casual it’s as if it’s always belonged there.
“How freaked out was Natalie?” I manage.
He exhales, his eyes narrowing slightly as he considers the question. “Pretty freaked,” he admits, jaw clenching again. I can almost feel the effort it’s taking him to keep his composure. “Can you tell me what happened?”
I hesitate. As much as I want to tell him every last terrifying detail, I can’t. Peter, Harrison, and their cronies are still out there, lying in wait. But if Davey or Silas decides to gain access to the surrounding security footage, they’ll likely see what happened to me right until I entered that alleyway, anyway.
My punishment will come eventually. I know that. But not at the expense of someone who hasn’t done anything wrong. Not Natalie. So, I decide on another half-truth. Just enough to keep her safe.
“Some guy held me at gunpoint.”
Silas’s entire body stills, but the sharp inhale that flares his nostrils gives him away. The hand on my knee moves back and forth across the torn fabric of my jeans. The touch is instinctive, intimate, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
“Do you know what he wanted?”
I snort, focusing on the veins and tendons in his hand as he moves. “We didn’t get into the pleasantries before he punched me in the face.” My tone is dry, but it’s a thin veil over the exhaustion and fear. I don’t allow the silence to linger before continuing, “I think he’s seen me with Natalie and wanted to use me to get to her.”
The moment the words leave my mouth, the soothing motion of his thumb slows, then stops altogether. The weight of his stare bears down on me like a physical force and I look up to look back at him. His eyebrows draw together, concern carving lines into his otherwise flawless features. The muscles in his jaw tighten with a tension that radiates through his entire frame.
“What makes you think that?” he asks, his tone low, measured. Controlled. But not calm. Never calm. Despite that, his hands remain steady, one still on my knee, the other now resting firmly on the outside of my thigh, as though he’s anchoring me—or himself.
“I thought he was going to rape me or kill me…” The words come out in a rush, tumbling over one another, and I have to swallow hard before I can continue. “Or both.” My voice catches on the last word, and I let out a shaky breath. “But instead, he took my phone, called her, and taunted me with it. I don’t know how he planned to lure her there because I fought back and he dropped the phone, but I just can’t think of any other explanation.”
Silas doesn’t speak immediately. He doesn’t need to. The transformation in him is terrifyingly visible. His face darkens with each word that passes through my lips, his gaze hardening into something so lethal it almost hurts to look at him. The composure he wears like a second skin isn’t breaking— it’s shattering, but not in a chaotic way. No, this is precision rage, the kind that implodes instead of explodes, calculated and deadly.
This isn’t the calm and collected businessman or the annoying yet charming adrenaline junkie I’ve seen before. The silence is more unnerving than any outburst could ever be, and I realize that he’s not just thinking of how to protect Natalie. He’s planning how to annihilate anyone who even dared to threaten her.
For a moment, I’m struck by the sheer intensity of him. I should be scared—after all, I’m part of the threat. But not where Natalie’s physical well-being is concerned, and I think he knows that. At least, I hope he does. I meet his eyes, unflinching, letting him see the sincerity in mine.
He lets out a slow, controlled exhale, the muscles in his shoulders shifting as though he’s forcing himself to dial back his anger. The grip on my knee remains there, hot against my jeans.
A knock echoes through the office, and I jump, the sudden sound sending a sharp bolt of pain through my head. I grunt in discomfort as I close my eyes tightly.
Silas’s grip on my knee and thigh tightens with firm but gentle reassurance. “Try to breathe. Deep and slow,” he instructs, his voice softer now. It’s the Silas I recognize from the auction, the one who talked me down when my panic had threatened to consume me. The one I trust, whether I should or not.
I do as he says, my breaths shaky but slowing as I follow his lead. His hands linger a moment longer before he stands, leaving me feeling oddly bereft in his absence.
He moves to the door, his strides purposeful but silent, and speaks in hushed tones to whoever is on the other side.
A man in his fifties with salt-and-pepper hair and a neatly trimmed goatee enters the room. He’s dressed in a crisp striped dress shirt, dark tie, tailored dress pants, and an open petticoat. In one hand, he carries a medical bag, and a leather briefcase hangs from the opposite shoulder.
“Hi, Dr. Carrow,” I greet him softly, figuring that breaking the ice might get this examination over with faster. “I’m Scarlett. Thanks for coming to see me.”
“I wish we were meeting under better circumstances,” he replies with a sigh, giving me a polite, practiced smile. I’m not sure under what better circumstances I’d ever meet him, but I don’t bother to ask. He strides further into the room with an air of familiarity, dropping both bags onto one of the open cigar chairs and draping his coat neatly over them. “Can I ask you a few questions before I take a look at you?”
“Of course,” I respond, though my throat protests the words.
He rifles through his briefcase, retrieving a leather-bound notebook and pen. Settling into the other cigar chair, he clicks the pen a few times as he flips to a clean page. “As long as you feel comfortable with it, it would help me if you could recall as many injuries as possible and their causes. I’ll give you a head-to-toe examination regardless, but this information will give me a good starting point, so I know we won’t miss anything.”
The thought of recounting every moment of this morning sends a shiver down my spine, but there’s no way around it. Silas remains silent, but I can feel his presence like a furnace at the edge of the couch. He’s watching, waiting, holding on to whatever storm is brewing inside him.
I take a shaky breath and begin, starting from the split skin on my forehead. My voice is measured, clinical. As if detaching myself from the details will make them easier to speak aloud. By the time I finish recounting every ache and injury, my voice is barely a whisper. Dr. Carrow listens intently, jotting down notes, occasionally pausing to nod or ask for clarification. His face betrays flashes of surprise and concern, though he remains professional and calm.
Silas, however, is a different story. By the time I’m done, he’s standing completely still, his arms folded so tightly across his chest I’m surprised the fabric of his shirt hasn’t torn. The restrained anger radiating off him is tangible, like standing too close to a live wire. It’s not directed at me—I know that much—but the intensity of it is almost overwhelming.
Dr. Carrow finally closes his notebook, slipping it back into his briefcase before standing and reaching for his medical bag. “From the sounds of it, you handled yourself well,” he says kindly, though there’s an edge of astonishment in his tone. Then he turns to Silas. “Can you help Ms. Page to the bathroom?”
Before I can protest that I don’t need help, Silas is at my side, his touch surprisingly gentle as his fingers fold around the crease of my elbow. He pulls me upright with ease, taking most of my weight as my legs threaten to buckle beneath me. His other hand slides across the small of my back, steadying me before carefully finding my opposite hip. The heat of his palm seeps through my clothes, centering me in a way I didn’t expect.
“Lean on me,” he murmurs, his voice low but certain. “I’ve got you.”
For some reason, I don’t doubt it—just like I didn’t when I stumbled into his lobby earlier. But nothing would have prepared me for this drastic and sudden change in our dynamic. It’s almost giving me whiplash.
Silas isn’t teasing me, making pointed jabs, or trying to rile me up. He isn’t even angry at me like the last time I saw him. I half expected him to be, even knowing he’d take care of me. Instead, he’s treating me gently. Not in a condescending way, but as if he’s trying to keep me together without drawing attention to the cracks.
The Silas I’ve gotten to know doesn’t do gentle. He needles, provokes. Enjoys getting under my skin. But this? This is different, and the shift is so stark it leaves me reeling. Yet, as unsettling as it is, I can’t deny that it feels… nice. Steadying.
Giving in, I allow myself to lean into him, my body protesting the movement with every step. My knees ache, a deep, throbbing soreness that makes me wince, and my knuckles sting where the skin has split. Even the simple act of shifting my weight sends a dull pain radiating all over. Silas doesn’t comment, just adjusts his grip, steady and sure, as he guides me toward the bathroom with an ease that makes me wonder how many people he’s had to carry like this.
The light in the bathroom is almost too bright, and I squint against it as Dr. Carrow begins unloading his bag onto the counter. The space is as immaculate as Silas’s office and home—a modern blend of dark wood, black tiles, and warm beige walls. An upholstered chair sits next to the sink, facing a blank wall, clearly prepared for me.
“I apologize for the brightness,” Dr. Carrow says with a grimace, gesturing toward the overhead lights. “It makes it easier for me to examine you. Can I have you change into a gown?”
I nod, resigned. Silas guides me into the small toilet room, ensuring the lid is down before lowering me onto it as though I weigh nothing. The effortless way he handles me would be almost irritating if it weren’t so reassuring.
Silas kneels in front of me, folding himself into the cramped space. One hand rests lightly on my knee, the other holding the folded hospital gown Dr. Carrow must have handed him.
“I’m going to stand right outside the door.” He nods to the wall next to the opening. “If you need help or feel dizzy, just say my name. I’ll hear you.”
The kindness woven into every word is almost too much, scraping against the fragile walls I’ve built around myself. I can feel them bowing under the weight of his care. Incapable of handling this tender side of Silas Wells any longer, I force a smirk onto my face, desperate to deflect the attention.
“If you wanted to see me naked, you could have just asked,” I quip, my voice hoarse, but there’s an undeniable teasing edge.
It takes him a second to process my words, and when he does, a low chuckle rumbles from the back of his throat, deep and rich. He squeezes my knee briefly before letting go, and rising to his full height as he places the gown in my lap.
“That mouth,” is all he says, his molten gaze lingering on mine for a moment longer than necessary. Then, he steps back and slips out of the room and shuts the door so quietly that I barely hear the latch click into place.
As quickly as my battered body will allow, I strip off my dirty clothes, every movement sending small jolts of pain through me. I shove the ruined garments into a corner with a foot, the action more cathartic than it has any right to be, and slide the hospital gown over my shoulders. The fabric is cool against my skin, a stark contrast to the heat still radiating from every bruise and scrape. It’s a strange comfort, and I focus on that sensation rather than letting my mind spiral into the chaos of what happened earlier.
It would be nice to have more time to process this. Time to sit and think and let myself unravel just a little. But I know better than to indulge in that. If I give myself even an inch, the floodgates will open, and there’s no way I can afford that right now. Compartmentalization has been my survival strategy for years, and I can handle this too. It’s just one more thing to lock away for later.
Taking a deep breath, I place a hand on the cool metal of the door handle. My fingers tremble slightly before pulling the door open. I step out into the bright bathroom, my back straight despite the muted throb in every inch of my body.
Silas is waiting just outside, leaning casually against the wall, as though he hasn’t been silently standing guard the entire time. He steps forward, his hand hovering near my elbow, ready to steady me if needed but giving me the space to move on my own.
“Let’s get this over with,” I mutter, more to myself than anyone else, and Silas’s lips quirk upward in the faintest hint of a smile. He doesn’t say anything, just stays close as I return to the chair near the sink. Dr. Carrow is already waiting, his expression calm but focused as he pulls on a pair of gloves.
–
According to Dr. Carrow, the split on my forehead isn’t as bad as it looks. Head wounds tend to be “dramatic” and bleed excessively, he assures me. It has already started clotting on its own and thanks to Silas’s help while I was sleeping, the dried blood on the rest of my face had been gently wiped away with a clean washcloth. This made it easier for Dr. Carrow to clean the area, apply an antiseptic, and place steri-strips to encourage the cut to close. He assures me the scar should be minimal.
The scratches on my cheek, hands, knees, and fingers have been meticulously cleaned. Dr. Carrow had to remove tiny pieces of debris—likely crumbling brick—from my face. He warns me to keep an eye on it for signs of infection. My throat appears fine but might stay sore for a few days, and he advises me to see my doctor if the pain persists. The last thing he examines is the lump on the back of my head.
“All things considered, you made it out of an unfair fight relatively intact,” Dr. Carrow remarks, a trace of admiration in his voice that makes my cheeks flush. “Do you take self-defense courses?”
I manage a small smile, trying to ignore the warm pride blooming in my chest. “I train in Jiu-Jitsu and a few other combat sports.”
The doctor chuckles softly as he examines the lump on my head, moving my hair gently from side to side. After a few more minutes of prodding, questions, and shining a light into my eyes, he steps back in front of me with a satisfied nod. “Judging by the welt, I’d be surprised if you didn’t break his nose. Your training probably saved your life.”
His words hit me harder than I expect, a sudden wave of validation for all the hours I’ve spent preparing for moments like this. Hearing a stranger acknowledge the work I’ve put into protecting myself feels like a small victory amidst the chaos.
“So,” Dr. Carrow begins, crossing his arms and meeting my gaze. “Your injuries are manageable. My biggest concern is the concussion, which you’ll need to monitor closely. I want you to take some acetaminophen before I leave, and someone needs to keep an eye on you for the next forty-eight hours to ensure your symptoms don’t worsen. Is there anyone you’d like me to call to stay with you?”
The warm pride in my chest immediately twists into something sharp and uncomfortable. The shame of not having anyone to call in these moments has never dulled over the years. I force a half-smile and shake my head, barely moving it to avoid aggravating the throbbing in my skull. “No. I’ll be okay. Thank you, though.”
Dr. Carrow opens his mouth, likely to press me on the issue, but Silas’s voice cuts through the room like steel. “She won’t be alone.”
I glance at Silas, taken aback by the quiet conviction in his voice. His arms are crossed, his posture stiff, but his eyes leave no room for argument. As much as I want to push back, I don’t have the energy for it, and I definitely don’t want to bicker in front of the doctor. I nod my agreement, and Dr. Carrow exhales softly.
“Very well,” he says, turning back to his bag and packing up his instruments. Between movements, he hands me two acetaminophen tablets and explains the over-the-counter regimen he wants me to follow, along with a list of concussion symptoms to watch for. He ends with a recommendation for a follow-up appointment with my own physician. After writing everything down in his notebook, he tears out the page and hands it to me.
“I’m glad you’re alright, Scarlett. Please don’t hesitate to call me if you need anything at all.” He places a comforting hand on mine for a moment, giving it a reassuring squeeze before releasing me. I thank him again, and he waves me off, telling me I’m free to go change.
Silas, who’s been silent but watchful from the far wall, steps forward as Dr. Carrow grabs his things. “Thank you, Dr. Carrow. Send Leslie the invoice, and she’ll handle it.”
“I can pay—” I start from the doorway of the toilet room, but Silas’s sharp gaze snaps to me.
“No, you won’t.” His tone firm and final
Though my skin burns under his commanding stare, I relent with a roll of my eyes. Silas, satisfied, turns back to Dr. Carrow. “If Natalie’s waiting in the hallway, let her know I’ll come get her when Scarlett’s ready for visitors.”
“Of course.” Dr. Carrow offers me a kind smile as he leaves, murmuring, “Nice to meet you, Ms. Page. Silas has my number if you need me.”
After I close the door behind myself, I notice something new in the corner of the bathroom. My old, bloodied clothes are gone, replaced with a neatly folded pile of fresh clothing on the top of the closed toilet—a pair of leggings, slip-on shoes, socks, a sports bra, a fitted t-shirt, and a quarter-zip with the tags still attached. My head throbs too much to piece together how Silas managed this without me noticing or who he sent out to purchase them, but the sight of the clean clothes stirs an unexpected wave of emotion. Tears prick the corners of my eyes and I blink them away, unwilling to let them fall.
Once dressed, I step into the rest of the bathroom, feeling slightly more human. Silas is leaning on the edge of the counter, his sharp gaze lifting to meet mine. He nods toward me, a silent invitation to join him. My feet seem to have a mind of their own, carrying me across the room.
Unwilling to face my reflection in the mirror behind him, I gingerly hoist myself onto the counter, my legs dangling over the edge. Silas watches me for a moment, his expression unreadable, before he stands straight and turns to face me. My pulse quickens, and I swallow nervously.
“Do you want me to dispose of your clothes or have them cleaned?” Silas asks simply, his tone neutral, giving no hint of preference for either option.
“Burn them,” I reply instantly. His eyes flicker with understanding, and he nods once, resolute.
“Done.”
The counter in this bathroom is unusually tall, clearly designed for someone with Silas’s stature. It makes our faces closer than they’ve ever been when I’m standing, and for the first time, I’m acutely aware of the height disparity between us. At almost 5’8”, I’ve always felt relatively tall for a woman, but Silas’s sheer presence—his unyielding, consuming energy—makes me feel impossibly small.
Clearing my throat for what feels like the hundredth time, I break the silence. “Why can’t Natalie come in yet?”
He leans forward, placing his hands on either side of my thighs, gripping the edge of the counter with enough force to turn his knuckles white. His slightly hunched shoulders bring his face close enough that I could count the faint freckles scattered across his nose if I wanted to.
“I have a few more questions,” he murmurs, his breath cool as it brushes against my skin. A shiver runs down my spine despite the warmth radiating from his body.
“Okay,” I manage to say. “Let’s hear them.”
One hand leaves the counter and reaches for the hair draped over my shoulder. He twirls the strands between his fingers, his eyes fixated on the movement as if studying every detail before shifting his attention back to me, his gaze sharp and unreadable.
“Are you okay?”
I blink in surprise, the question catching me off guard. “Huh?”
Silas raises an eyebrow, his previously expression softening just slightly. “It’s one of my questions. Are you okay?”
The words tangle in my brain, leaving me momentarily speechless. When I first woke up, I expected Silas to demand answers, to dissect what had happened with his characteristic focus and precision. It’s how he operates, and I prefer it that way. But this sudden shift leaves me fumbling.
“I’m fine, Silas,” I finally say, though my voice lacks conviction. “Tired and sore, but fine.”
The creases in his brow deepen, jaw tightening like he’s holding back from arguing with me. “Can I get you more water? Something to eat?”
I reach up, wrapping my fingers gently around the wrist of the hand still toying with my hair. His skin is warm and steady. “I’m good right now. Thank you.”
His hand moves slowly, sliding up the side of my neck, causing my own hold to fall away. His fingertips brush over the bruises there with a feather-light touch, lingering, as though trying to absorb the pain for himself. He stops on my uninjured cheek, thumb grazing my skin so gently it feels like a whisper.
The noise in my head—the endless static of worry, fear, and exhaustion—fades under his touch. His scruff is slightly longer than it was a few days ago, adding a rugged edge to his otherwise polished appearance. It’s a subtle difference, but it does something to me I can’t quite name. For the first time in what feels like hours, the world narrows to just this moment. To just him.
“What made you come here?” he asks, his voice low and the question loaded.
My stomach twists, the weight of his question pressing heavily on me. I take a shaky breath and force myself to speak. “I heard Natalie panicking on the phone. I wasn’t thinking clearly, but I was worried she might try to find me, since we were supposed to meet for coffee nearby. When I got out of the alley and back to the main road, I realized how close I was to this building. I thought if I could talk to you or Davey, you could call her so she wouldn’t do anything dangerous,” I pause, debating whether I should say what I’m really feeling. Against my better judgment, I decide to be honest. “And I… I knew I’d be safe here. That you’d take care of me.”
Silas’s lips part, his pupils dilating behind the glasses perched on his nose. His hand slides further back, into my hair, his fingers curling into the strands with a tenderness that contradicts the tension in his body. His chest rises and falls with uneven breaths as he takes in my words.
“Fuck, Scarlett,” he mutters, his voice rough as his forehead dips forward, nose brushing against the side of mine. The intimacy of the gesture steals the air from my lungs. “What are you doing to me?”
His free hand presses lightly against the small sliver of skin exposed at the base of my spine, his touch both comforting and electrifying. My body responds instinctively, leaning into him despite the soreness radiating through my limbs. Every nerve ending feels like it’s on fire, hyper-aware of the man standing between my knees, holding me like I’m something precious.
I can’t think. His lips are so close that I can almost taste him, and I know with certainty that if he leans in, if he decides to take what he wants, I won’t stop him.
Without letting up his grip, Silas lifts his head, his eyes still clouded with emotion but sharpened by something more calculating now. “Do you have any idea who the man was?” he asks. The question is enough to pierce through the haze clouding my mind.
“No,” I reply, shaking my head slightly.
“Where did he first approach you?”
Even though I don’t intend to contact anyone, I try to divert his attention from the details, if only for a moment. “Shouldn’t we call the cops for this?” I ask, watching for his reaction.
His eyes narrow. “The cops aren’t going to do what I need them to. If you want to call them for your own peace of mind, of course, we can do that,” he says, his voice softer now, though it carries a definitive edge. “But I’m going to have my own team look into this.”
My eyes widen in surprise. That’s news to me. “Your own team?”
Before he can elaborate, there’s a knock at the office door. It’s quiet, almost hesitant, but the interruption feels like a ripple in the stillness between us. We both know it’s Natalie. And if I’ve learned anything about her, it’s that she’s not going to go away. Silas sighs deeply, as though he’s been expecting this.
“She’ll kick the door down soon if I don’t let her in,” he says, a faint trace of amusement in his voice. Then, as if it’s a given, he adds, “We can talk more at home.”
“Home?” I repeat, confused.
He chuckles softly before leaning in to press his lips against my hairline. The gesture is so gentle, so unexpectedly affectionate, that my heart stutters in my chest.
“You need to be watched for forty-eight hours,” he explains, taking on a matter-of-fact tone. “And either you lost your purse and keys, or the asshole stole them. We’ll need to contact your apartment and have the locks changed. I’ll help you cancel your cards, too.”
I hadn’t even noticed my small cross-body bag was missing. In all the chaos, it didn’t even cross my mind. It likely fell off during the struggle, but if my attacker did take it, it’s not like the fake ID or my keys would be a real issue. Peter has his own set of keys to my place, and if he wanted to make a move, he wouldn’t hesitate. Still, the last thing I need is to insist on staying home, have Natalie come with me, and then face an unexpected visitor in the middle of the night.
“Awfully presumptuous of you to think I’m going to stay with you instead of Natalie,” I joke weakly, attempting to lighten the mood.
The corner of Silas’s mouth lifts in a slow, knowing smile as his hands slide from my hips to hook under my arms, pulling me gently to the edge of the counter. My body slides down the front of his with maddening slowness until my feet touch the floor, but he doesn’t step away. The steady beat of my heart thunders in my ears, making my headache worse.
“She’s going to visit Cecilia in Los Angeles for the weekend,” he says casually, as if we’re discussing the weather. “Once Davey hears the details, I wouldn’t be surprised if he charters the plane tonight instead of tomorrow morning.”
Shit. I’d completely forgotten about Natalie’s trip. She’d mentioned visiting her best friend until Sunday, which means I’d be left to either stay with Silas or, worse, be offered a room at Davey’s place. The latter sounds like a nightmare, and I can’t imagine Silas letting me choose his best friend over him without a fight.
As if sensing my hesitation, Silas adds, “Once we know you’re safe, you’ll be free to go.”
I don’t miss the way he phrases it—“safe,” not “healthy.” My lips press into a thin line, giving him a look that says I’m onto him, but he doesn’t seem the least bit phased.
“Doesn’t sound like I have much of a choice,” I mutter, though there’s no real bite to my words.
His smile widens, his lips tugging up at one corner in that infuriatingly confident way of his. Finally, he steps back slightly, leaving one hand resting on the small of my back to guide me toward the door. “I’m not so arrogant to think I can make you do anything,” he answers. “But I want to. And I think you want me to, too. Let me do this for you.”
The exhaustion is starting to settle deep in my bones, making every step feel heavier than the last. The idea of someone taking care of me, even for a little while, is more tempting than I want to admit. And this version of Silas, the one who looks at me like I’m more than just a puzzle or a challenge, is someone I’m not ready to say goodbye to just yet.
So, against my better judgment, I let him win. “Okay,” I whisper.
Just this once.
–
“Scarlett’s been through enough today,” Natalie insists, her sharp tone cutting through the tension in the room. Her glare at Davey’s back could level mountains, but he doesn’t turn around. Her husband stands at Silas’s floor-to-ceiling windows, his hands in his pockets, shoulders taut with frustration.
“It’s not adding up,” Davey mutters, almost to himself, his focus trained on the skyline beyond the glass. “You have other friends. No one’s ever gone after them to get to you. Why now? Why her?”
The ice pack chills my forehead, but his words cool me to the bone. He isn’t wrong. For over an hour, he’s been drilling me with questions—careful, precise, probing for any loose thread in my story. Davey has never trusted me, and now, with a potential threat tied to Natalie, I’m under his microscope more than ever.
The man is as paranoid as he is brilliant. And that makes him dangerous. If I make one mistake, give him even the smallest inconsistency, Davey’ll tear my story apart piece by piece. My heart races with the need to run, but I stay rooted in place. Running won’t solve anything. It’ll only confirm whatever suspicions he has.
Peter’s motives are no clearer now than they were in that alley. I’d assumed the man with the gun was sent to get rid of me: simple, clean, efficient. But this? This was something else entirely. Why would he go to the trouble of calling Natalie? What was the plan? To kidnap her and use her to pressure the Wells family into giving Peter what he wants? Or was it worse? Something designed to remind me of the leash around my neck and what happens when I test its limits? The uncertainty grates at me. All I know for sure is that Natalie cannot be in the line of fire.
If I get Peter what he wants, if I find the servers and deliver the blackmail, maybe it’ll be enough to stop all of this. Silas can handle whatever fallout Peter has planned; his strength, his influence, his sheer force of will make me believe that. But if Peter takes Natalie the same way he took Drew, I won’t survive it. And neither would the two men in this room.
I’ve done my best to steer Davey’s interrogation toward Natalie, keeping his focus there. His love for her is my best weapon. If he’s preoccupied with protecting her, the rest of my carefully crafted half-truths won’t matter.
“Agreed,” Silas says, his voice cutting through the tension. He leans back in one of the leather cigar chairs. “Scarlett needs rest.”
From the couch, Natalie grips my forearm gently. Silas looks between us, his focus landing on me before continuing, “Leslie’s canceled my meetings for the rest of the day. I’ll be taking her back to my house after this.”
Natalie’s head snaps toward her brother, her eyebrows pinching with frustration. “Why are you acting like I’m not staying in Chicago to take care of her?” she demands.
“Because you aren’t,” Davey answers before Silas can, turning from the windows to face us. “You’ve been looking forward to this trip. And it’ll be good for you to get some distance while we figure this out.”
Her aggravation is palpable as she looks between her husband and brother, but I intervene before she can argue further by patting her hand. “You’ve been talking about seeing Cecilia for weeks. And Davey’s right. It’ll be safer for you if you’re away from here for a few days.”
“You’re hurt because of me,” she murmurs, her golden eyes glistening with unshed tears. The guilt in her voice twists something deep in my chest, but I shake my head firmly.
“No,” I say, my voice steady despite the ache in my head. “I’m hurt because some asshole wants to hurt you .”
“Scarlett’s right,” Silas interjects and stands to his full height to begins to button the front of his suit jacket, commanding attention without effort. “You’re not responsible for someone else’s actions. But he made a mistake underestimating her, and that will cost him.”
Silas’s voice is calm, but the conviction behind his words sends a shiver down my spine. When his eyes meet mine, the heat in them softens just slightly, but the promise remains. His words are as much for me as they are for the room: a vow of retribution.
“Scarlett needs to rest, and you need to pack,” he reiterates, looking at his sister. “She’ll be in good hands while you’re gone.”
Natalie hesitates, her stubbornness flaring again as she bites the inside of her cheek. But as she glances between the three of us, she finally relents, shoulders slumping in a mix of defeat and reluctant acceptance. “I know she will be,” she murmurs softly. “Okay. Let’s get going.”
She squeezes my arm one last time before standing, and for a moment, her eyes meet mine. There’s so much emotion there—guilt, care, worry—and it takes everything in me not to crumble under the weight of it.