Chapter 27
T he blood rushes to my head, and I reach for my cue stick with my free hand, fingers curling around it for something to hold onto. Davey doesn’t look away, his piercing gaze locked onto mine. He sets his cue back on the table with deliberate ease, then crosses his arms and shifts his weight onto one leg, posture deceptively relaxed.
“I find this whole situation... funny,” he says, pausing as if savoring the word.
I lift my cocktail to my lips, the condensation trickling down my fingers as I take a measured sip. The tequila burns on the way down, offering me a moment of reprieve. “What’s funny about it?” I ask, my voice steady despite the unease coiling in my chest.
He tilts his head, scrutinizing me. The furrow between his brows deepens. Even his usually immaculate auburn hair is disheveled. He’s been stewing over this, probably since the moment I showed up at Natalie’s art gala.
“You,” he says finally, his tone sharp but calm. “You show up out of nowhere, befriending my wife and bewitching my brother-in-law. We’ve known you an all of, what? Three months? And suddenly, our worlds spin as if you’ve always been in it.”
The weight of his accusation is like a stone thrown into still water, rippling outward. I force my fingers to relax, even as heat prickles at the back of my neck. He knows nothing. He’s just trying to rattle me.
I place my glass down and hold on to the edge of the pool table before letting out a soft, dismissive laugh. “You’re making me blush.”
Davey raises a brow, unimpressed. “That’s an interesting way to respond to an accusation.”
My fingers tap a steady rhythm against the cue stick as I shrug, feigning nonchalance. “I take all accusations seriously.” I force an easy smile. “I befriended Natalie because she approached me at an event. I was there to meet people, and Natalie is the kind of person anyone would want as a friend. Wouldn’t you agree?”
For a moment, his fist clenching so subtly it’s almost imperceptible. But I notice. After a beat, he shakes his head, letting out a dry chuckle. “You’re good,” he mutters, a touch of incredulity coloring his tone.
I tilt my head slightly. “I’m just being honest,” I reply, my grip on the table tightening. “And as for the second half of your accusation—what exactly have I done to ‘bewitch’ Silas?”
Davey rolls his eyes, his annoyance barely masked. “As if you don’t know exactly what you’re doing.”
I don’t fully deny it. I can’t. Instead, I deflect. “I genuinely want to understand. What have I done that makes you think I’ve put Silas under some kind of spell? Honestly, I never thought he was even capable of being seduced.”
“He isn’t,” Davey responds almost too quickly. His hands drop to his sides, sliding into his pockets. “And that’s precisely why I want to know what you’re playing at. Why you’re doing all of this.”
Something about his words strikes a nerve, more than I expect it to. Maybe it’s his relentless suspicion, his constant needling, or maybe it’s the way he reduces everything between me and Silas to a ploy. As though my feelings—real, messy, complicated feelings—don’t exist.
The words that leave my mouth are laced with frustration. “All of what, Davey? I moved to Chicago and met both of them. I’ve kept to myself, accepted invitations when given, and tried to build a life here. I’m not sure why you think so little of Natalie, but there are a million reasons I want to be her friend. None of which have anything to do with her family.”
His eyes darken at my insinuation, anger flashing across his features like lightning. It’s a low blow, and regret creeps along my spine for even bringing Natalie further into this conversation. But I’m too far in now to back down.
The silence between us stretches, heavy and suffocating, until he chooses to ignore my comment and instead presses, “And what of Silas?”
Before I can stop myself, the memories flood in. Silas’s intense, dark eyes heating during our banter. The way his grin transforms him when he bests me, and the way his jaw ticks when I best him. The raw fury in his gaze at the restaurant, and the tenderness in his touch as he tended to my injuries in his office. The way he moved against me in his bedroom, his lips commanding mine like he was memorizing me.
I blink rapidly, dragging myself back to the present. My throat feels dry and I swallow hard, avoiding Davey’s gaze by staring at the scattered billiard balls on the table.
“Silas isn’t like anyone I’ve ever met before,” I admit quietly, my voice barely above a whisper. Silas does something to me I can’t explain—he quiets the chaos in my mind. Steadies everything in the most unconventional way. For someone like me, who thrives in controlled disorder, that calm feels like a luxury I can’t afford.
I square my shoulders, and meet his stare. “I don’t know what more I can say other than I like being around them.”
When I meet Davey’s gaze again, his expression has shifted, so subtly I could have missed it. The hard edge in his eyes softens just enough to let me know he won’t push this subject further. At least not tonight.
“People don’t fall into the Wells family without reason,” he says quieter now, almost reflective.
I nod, swallowing down the things I can’t tell him. Instead, I offer him another half-truth, one I can stand behind without it breaking me. “I’m sure, in most cases, you’re right.”
Davey reaches down, picking up a billiard ball in front of him. He pushes it slowly across the table, letting it roll until it comes to a complete stop near the center of the felt. His movements are deliberate, like everything else about him.
“It goes without saying,” he begins, his voice low and deadly serious, “but if you ever do anything to hurt Natalie…” He trails off, leaving the threat hanging in the air. His eyes blaze with a fierce protectiveness as he speaks of his wife, and if it weren’t obvious enough already, I’m reminded of the depth of his devotion.
I nod again, unable to promise him anything but my understanding. “I know,” I say softly, the weight of his words settling heavily on my chest.
The faint hum of music is the only sound in the room. I hold my breath, refusing to break eye contact, even as my grip on the pool cue tightens once more.
After what feels like an eternity, Davey glances at his watch and, without warning, steps away from the table and heads toward the door. “I’m going to make sure everything’s okay with Natalie,” he says over his shoulder.
I don’t respond, and he doesn’t expect me to. In his perfectly tailored suit, Davey strides out of the room without a second glance, leaving me alone with the echo of his footsteps.
The heavy wooden door clicks shut behind him, and only then do I exhale, the breath rushing out of me in a shaky gasp. I bend at the waist as the tension I’ve been holding on to floods out of me all at once. My grip on the pool cue loosens, fingers cramping as I flex them to regain feeling. With my free hand, I pinch the bridge of my nose, willing myself to calm down.
I’m so, so fucked.
“He’s right, you know.” The sound of Silas’s smoky voice fills the room, and I jump, clutching the cue stick like a lifeline.
I whip around, heart pounding, to see him in the shadows of a barely visible doorway. He’s leaning casually in the frame of what, I assumed, was a closet door next to the bar. My mind registers the existence of the passageway, filing it away for later, but my attention is immediately drawn to him.
He looks disheveled in the most infuriatingly attractive way: dark dress pants, a slightly rumpled white button-up, and a tie hanging loose around his neck. His unruly dark curls frame his face, and his rolled-up sleeves reveal the ink swirling over his left forearm. My blood feels molten in my veins.
“You scared me,” I manage to say, forcing a weak half-smile. He smirks, but it does little to mask the frustration etched into the rest of his expression.
“Boo,” he says mockingly, his smile growing so much that it’s all teeth.
I sidestep to maintain the distance between us, trying to keep my composure even as he draws closer purposefully.
“Are there any trap doors I should be concerned about falling into?” I joke halfheartedly, nodding toward the door he came though in an attempt to break the tension.
“Not to my knowledge,” he replies, stopping far too close for comfort. I can feel the heat radiating from him as he leans against the side of the pool table, his eyes locked on me. “Did you have a nice conversation with Davey?” His tone is taunting, daring me to rise to the bait.
I don’t answer. Instead, I focus on the pool table. “How is he right?” I ask, steering the conversation back to his earlier remark.
Silas pauses, considering his words. “It’s unusual for someone to infiltrate our family so easily,” he finally answers.
I force myself to meet his gaze, offering a closed-mouth smile. “Infiltrate, huh? Like a spy?” I try to lighten the mood, but he doesn’t bite. His lips press into a thin line as he pulls a handkerchief from his pocket and takes off his glasses to wipe the lenses with slow, deliberate movements.
Everything about him is calculated, every action intentional. That’s part of what draws me to him. He knows exactly what he wants and how to get it. And no matter how much I try to convince myself otherwise, he’s made it abundantly clear that, for now, what he wants is me.
“You’ve been avoiding me,” he says finally, sliding his glasses back onto his face and returning the cloth to his pocket. His tone is calm, but his sharp gaze pierces me, leaving no room for escape.
My throat tightens. I reach for my glass, taking a sip to steady myself. His eyes remain fixed on my lips. Heat blooms in my chest, and I set the glass down, gripping the cue stick with both hands as if it can ground me.
“I told you how I feel about everything.” My voice is strained but steady.
“You fed me your lies earlier, yes.” His casual delivery of the accusation grates on my nerves.
“They weren’t lies, Silas. Saturday was a mistake.”
One of his brows arches slightly, his expression unreadable but no less intense. “Why are you fighting this so hard?” he asks, stepping closer, his presence overwhelming.
“Because I don’t want it,” I respond, my voice rising as my grip on the cue stick tightens.
“So you felt nothing when I touched you?” His voice dips, rough and tantalizing. “Kissed you?”
Fingers curls around the wrist of my free hand and pull me against him, his body warm and solid. Our chests rise and fall in the same rhythm, pressing the pool stick between us. His other hand brushes the corner of my lips, his thumb lingering there, and I can barely breathe.
“Say it, Scarlett,” he murmurs, his mouth so close to mine that his breath becomes my own. “Tell me it meant nothing.”
The hand on my wrist slides lower, fingers brushing my palm before intertwining with mine. The touch is a silent challenge, daring me to pull away. The warnings screaming in my brain, for some reason, don’t reach my mouth.
“You can’t, can you?” he whispers, his lips curving into a faint, knowing smirk. His eyes blaze with unspoken promises, every sinful thought he’s ever had laid bare. “Because you don’t want me to stop.”
A sharp sting of clarity cuts through the haze. “Fuck you,” I snap, shoving hard against his chest. He releases me instantly, the smirk vanishing as I put distance between us. My heart pounds like a war drum.
For a moment, neither of us speaks. But even as I struggle to collect myself, he doesn’t back down. I can see the determination brimming in his eyes.
“That doesn’t answer my question,” Silas says, recovering far too quickly, his voice infuriatingly confident as his gaze tracks my every move.
“I don’t care,” I snap, wrapping both hands around the pool stick again like it’s armor. I turn my body perpendicular to his, hoping to shield myself from even a fraction of the pull he always has on me. “I’m telling you no.”
“And I’m telling you to stop being a coward.”
A sharp, bitter laugh escapes me before I whip my glare over my shoulder at him. “I’m not a plaything, Silas. You don’t get to decide for the both of us. I’m not ruining my friendship with Natalie for sex.”
“Who said it’s just sex?” he counters smoothly.
“Oh, please.” I roll my eyes, my voice dripping with disdain, desperate to keep him at bay.
“Please, what?” There’s tension in his jaw now, the muscles flexing under his stubble.
“The sweet-talking won’t work on me. I’m not stupid. You just can’t handle being told no.”
His laugh is low and humorless, sharp enough to cut glass. “You really think I do this with just anyone?”
“Honestly? Yes,” I fire back, my words like venom. “And I’m not one of them.”
“Hate to break it to you, Scarlett, but you already are.”
Any shred of patience I had left goes up in flames. “You are fucking impossible.” My voice rises, bouncing off the walls. If he isn’t going to relent, then I’ll make him. I’ll make him hate me. So, I reach for that part of me I keep hidden, the part of me that knows how to hurt. “Just stop. I’m not some desperate woman pining for scraps of attention from you. You’re a spoiled, self-absorbed—”
Before I can finish, a sharp pressure tugs at the end of my ponytail, forcing my head back. A startled gasp escapes my lips as my body is yanked back against his with ease, the hard plane of his chest pressing into my back. The cue stick in my hands feels like a lifeline, but my grip falters as his presence consumes me.
With a precise twist of his wrist, Silas tightens his grip, his fingers threading through my hair as he holds the back of my head against his shoulder, suspending me between defiance and submission. My vision adjusts, and when it sharpens, I meet his gaze: dark, endless, and brimming with something unrestrained and dangerous.
His nostrils flare, a single measured exhale passing through his parted lips. The surrounding air thickens, becoming something tangible. It presses down on me like a shadow, suffocating and intoxicating all at once, but it’s darker than anything I’ve ever encountered before. More visceral. It pulses between us, like a wire stretched to its breaking point.
“ That fucking mouth ,” Silas growls, his tongue sweeping over his front teeth as he studies me, his eyes blazing with heat.
My own gaze betrays me, drifting to the sharp line of his jaw, the freckles scattered across the bridge of his nose, the way his glasses frame those piercing eyes. I cling to the pool stick, the only thing keeping my knees from buckling.
When I try to speak, nothing comes out, my voice caught somewhere between my chest and throat. Silas takes my silence as surrender, pulling a little harder on my ponytail, just enough to make me arch further into him. Heat radiates from the base of my scalp, igniting every nerve ending down to my toes. The sharp pull of his grip shouldn’t feel this good, but it does.
God, it does.
I feel the solid wall of his chest, the unyielding press of his thighs against the curve of my hips, fitting against me like a glove I didn’t know was made for me.
Sensing my unraveling, Silas leans forward, his nose skimming the side of my cheek. I jolt at the rough scratch of his beard against my skin, a friction that sends sparks shooting down my spine.
“It’s one of my favorite things about you, Scarlett,” he murmurs, his voice dripping with depravity. “Even if it makes me violent.”
The grip on my hair loosens slightly, just enough for my head to fall to the side, baring the length of my neck. His lips hover near my ear, each word a velvet dagger.
“You’re not staying in the guest room tonight.”
My heart releases a traitorous thump against my ribs. I manage to find my voice, though it’s lacking all its regular conviction. “I’m not staying here at all , Silas. I can’t be with you like that.”
A low, throaty laugh escapes him, the sound wrapping around me like smoke. His hand slides from my ponytail to my waist, pulling me even closer, the possession in his touch clear. “You can’t?” he repeats, his voice heavy with skepticism. “Or you won’t?”
“Both,” I bite out, though my words falter. “I told you.”
His hand moves to cup my jaw, tilting my face upward, forcing me to meet his gaze. His dark, espresso eyes bore into mine, saturated with lust. “You’re in my house, Scarlett. You’ve already crossed that line, whether you want to admit it or not.”
I try to pull back, to create even the smallest amount of distance, but his hold tightens just enough to keep me rooted in place. “This isn’t right,” I whisper, hating the way the words sound so weak, so uncertain.
A faint, predatory smile curves his lips. “It feels right to me,” he counters smoothly, his thumb brushing over my bottom lip. “And it feels right to you, too.”
I shake my head, desperate to cling to the remnants of my crumbling resistance. “I can’t sleep with you.”
The hand on my waist flexes, his grip firm yet not painful. “Do you really think I let anyone into my life, into my home, into my bed, like this?” he asks, his voice a low hiss, as if I’ve insulted him.
Hope, heat, and devastation swell in my chest, his presence suffocating and overwhelming me. I open my mouth to argue, to tell him he’s wrong, but my voice betrays me, leaving me at a complete loss for words.
“You can fight this all you want,” he continues, his tone softening, though it remains edged with unyielding steel. “But we both know you’re staying.”
His other hand slides down my arm, his fingers brushing against mine as he gently loosens my grip on the pool cue. He plucks it from my hands and places it on the edge of the table without ever breaking eye contact. “Say it,” he murmurs, his voice softer now but no less commanding. “Say you’re staying.”
“I—” my voice cracks, and I look away, unable to bear the weight of his gaze any longer. Any remaining strength is slipping through my fingers like grains of sand.
“Say it,” he repeats, his thumb tracing the line of my jaw, coaxing me to turn back toward him. When I do, when I finally meet his gaze again, I know I’m lost.
There’s something in his expression I’ve never seen before, a vulnerability that takes me by surprise. It’s a look that both demands and pleads, as though he’s utterly certain I’ll say yes but bracing himself for the possibility I won’t. He’s stripped himself bare, his usual confidence and control set aside, leaving him raw and exposed. It’s a kind of trust I don’t know how to handle.
“Okay,” I whisper finally, the word barely audible, but it seals my fate nonetheless.
His smile is a mix of satisfaction and something deeper. “Okay,” he repeats, his tone quieter now, like a promise.
I hate the way I’ve let him rob me of my own autonomy, the way I’ve surrendered with almost no fight. But the worst part, the part that burns hotter than any frustration or anger, is that I want this. I want to give him this power over me. I want to surrender to him, to let him take the control I’ve never been able to hold on to. And that truth—that undeniable, complete truth—scares me more than anything else ever could.