Chapter 20
T he ride to Silas’s home is meticulously planned, efficient, and oddly soothing. We exit the office through a private elevator leading to the underground garage, the hum of city life entirely shut out. Davey’s Lincoln and a luxury SUV I’d never seen before are already idling at the curb when the doors open.
Natalie wraps me in a tight hug, her whispered promises to check in makes my throat tighten, and I manage to thank Davey despite the calculating glint still lingering in his eyes. Through it all, Silas hovers at my side. The coolness of his palm under the base of the sweatshirt on my lower back is startling, but I don’t pull away. Instead, I let it anchor me as we exchange our goodbyes and head toward the SUV.
There’s no recklessness, no thrill-seeking edge in the way Silas handles the wheel this time, only steady precision. His silence isn’t oppressive but intentional, a rare moment of quiet in a day that’s been anything but. His hand rests on my thigh as he drives, his thumb tracing lazy, reassuring circles over the fabric of my leggings. I should pull away, remind him of my boundaries that we both know we’re ignoring, but I don’t. Instead, I let the steady rhythm of his touch ease the tension in my body as I lean back into the plush seat.
Sleep doesn’t come, but the quiet allows the ache in my body to subside just enough to keep me present. Only when the warmth of Silas’s hand disappears do I open my eyes. The wrought-iron gate to his home is sliding open, and we pull into the privacy of his four-car garage, tucked away from the main road. The hum of the garage door shutting behind us feels oddly final, as though I’ve just crossed into a space I won’t easily leave.
Once the SUV is in park, Silas turns to me, his eyes scanning my face. “What do you need?” The simplicity of his question, paired with the sincerity in his voice, catches me off guard. My chest aches at the unspoken promise behind his words.
He’ll get me whatever I ask for.
I rub the ends of my dirty hair between my fingers, grimacing. “Dr. Carrow said I can’t get the steri-strips wet, but I’d like to wash my hair and… just clean up in general.” My voice is small, almost shy. “And maybe eat something too.”
“Done and done,” he replies without hesitation and circles around to my door before I can reach for the handle. His hand extends toward me, palm up, and I take it, the roughness of his calloused skin brushing against mine.
He leads me through the garage bays and into his home through a side entryway near the kitchen, pausing briefly to unlock, disable, and re-arm the alarms. The movements precise and practiced. “Kitchen’s through here,” he says, gesturing toward the open space beyond. “I’ll give you a proper tour when you’re feeling better.” His fingers flex around mine comfortingly. “You can get cleaned up, and I’ll make you some lunch. Do you have any allergies or dietary restrictions?”
I blink at him, processing the question a beat too late. “You cook?” I ask, surprised. It’s the only response I manage.
He huffs out a soft laugh, the corners of his mouth lifting in a way that sends warmth skittering through my chest. “I can fend for myself when necessary,” he answers. His grin deepens as he glances down at me, his full lips only inches away. My throat tightens, and I muster a small smile in return.
“No allergies or restrictions,” I reply, the words finally finding their way out.
“My favorite kind of woman,” he teases, stepping away slightly, but not before giving my hand a small, reassuring tug to pull me closer to his side.
He leads me through the house with an ease that feels oddly intimate, like he’s walked this path with me a hundred times before. Most of the spaces we pass were filled with staff during the auction, leaving me with no real sense of his home’s layout. But now, I can tell that it’s a pretty straight shot from the side entry to the familiar back staircase I snuck up weeks ago.
“You’re familiar with this area,” Silas remarks, waving his free hand around the stairwell as we ascend. His playfulness and relaxed smile makes me roll my eyes, which only encourages him further.
On the second floor, he takes me past his office and into an unexplored hallway with several doors on either side. He stops at the furthest one on the right and opens it, revealing a guest room that’s somehow both cozy and impossibly luxurious.
The walls, trim, and ceiling are all painted in a soft moss green that feels calming, while the dark floors and black accent furniture add a rich depth to the space. A king-sized bed with crisp white bedding dominates the room, flanked by linen curtains over the two oversized windows. Opposite the bed, an original dark wood fireplace with antique tiles catches my eye, its craftsmanship a testament to the home’s history. Two inviting chairs sit nearby, clearly meant for quiet moments and maybe a book. The warm glow from the bedside lamp illuminates the space, making it feel like a haven.
“Closet and bathroom,” Silas says, nodding toward the two doors on either side of the bed before walking toward the one farther away. He flips the light switch as he steps inside, motioning for me to follow.
The bathroom is just as stunning, a seamless extension of the bedroom’s understated elegance. White marble covers the surfaces, reflecting the soft lighting overhead. A claw foot tub sits near the far wall, a standing shower large enough for a crowd next to it. Double vanities painted the same green as the bedroom walls complete the space, each detail perfectly curated.
“Thank you,” I whisper, my voice barely audible as I take it all in. The enormity of his generosity, of his care, presses in on me from all sides. Without a word, Silas releases my hand and steps out of the bathroom, disappearing around the corner.
I blink after him, listening to his retreating footsteps. He doesn’t return. For a moment, I feel the weight of the silence, a rare moment of solitude after everything that’s happened. Maybe he thinks I need this—a chance to breathe, to process. He’s probably right. And yet, his absence feels stark and unsettling.
Just as I reach for the door to close it, Silas reappears. My hand flies to my chest, startled. In his hands, he’s carrying a simple black wooden chair. His brow furrows, but he says nothing, simply placing the chair on the floor between us.
“Sorry,” he murmurs, his voice softer now. “I wanted you to have a place to sit.”
My hand slides down from my chest to rest at my side. “Sit for what?”
“To wash your hair,” he says matter-of-factly, as though the answer is obvious.
I tilt my head, a small, confused smile tugging at my lips. “I’m not sure I’m following you.”
“You’re not going to be able to wash your hair comfortably on your own,” he responds, chin jutting toward the shower. “You shouldn’t be moving your head around like that anyway. We can wash it in the shower. It’s plenty big for both of us and the chair.”
The casual cadence of his voice feels almost disarming, the striking contrast to the vulnerability of what he’s suggesting. My throat tightens, and the words catch before they can leave my lips. “You’re going to wash my hair?” I finally manage.
The question settles between us, and he watches my reaction before pushing the chair to the side to close the small distance between us, one hand rising to my face. His fingertips rest just under my chin and those dark eyes lock onto mine, searching. Steady.
“Yes,” he says with quiet conviction. “I told you earlier—I’ve got you.”
For a moment, the world tilts as the reality of his words settles over me. This isn’t just kindness or obligation. This is better than any version of him I’ve encountered. This is the Silas I never dared to imagine, and I’m completely undone.
“You barely even know me,” I whisper, my voice cracking as my eyes grow glossy. I don’t mean to sound so vulnerable, but the day has worn down my walls.
Silas’s glasses glint under the bathroom light as he offers a quiet, closed-mouth smile. His dimple peeks out just slightly beneath the growing scruff on his jaw. “But I want to,” he says simply.
“Why?” The question comes out before I can stop it, loaded with confusion and the worry I can’t quite contain. Silas doesn’t shy away from it. He just keeps his eyes on mine, his hand sliding down to caress the side of my neck, thumb brushing gently over my skin.
“Because I like what I do see,” he murmurs, and I struggle to keep my composure.
This man is going to break me. Just like Natalie being hurt would break me. I’m in so far over my head that I’m drowning, but for the life of me, I can’t seem to push him away.
Silas takes my silence as acceptance, touch shifting down to my shoulders. He turns me gently toward the shower, as if we have all the time in the world. “Come on, you should relax. Take off your sweatshirt, and I’ll set up the chair.”
Grabbing the wooden chair, he moves it into the walk-in shower, positioning the seat to face away from the shower head. With meticulous care, he rolls up his sleeves, folding each section neatly until his forearms are exposed. The muscles flex subtly as he moves, the veins faintly visible beneath his skin. For the first time, I catch a proper glimpse of his tattoo. The bottom half is a detailed landscape—a dark, winding river beginning at the top of his wrist, carving its way through rugged terrain flanked by small clusters of trees. Their sparse branches stretch toward the base of his elbow, their leaves delicate against the stark scenery. The suggestion of mountains disappears under the cuff of his shirt.
I’m so distracted by the ink that I blurt out, “We’re both going to get soaked.”
Silas stills, and when I look up at him, I realize he’s caught me staring. My cheeks burn under his knowing gaze, and his pupils dilate.
“I’ve had worse things happen to me,” he replies smoothly.
A breathy laugh escapes me, breaking the tension. “Oh, grow up,” I shoot back, rolling my eyes despite myself.
His lips curve into a lopsided grin, the warmth behind it making my stomach twist in ways I can’t explain. “Never,” he counters without missing a beat. Then, with a slight nod toward me, he adds, “Take the sweatshirt off. Shoes and socks, too.”
For a brief moment, I consider insisting I can handle it myself, but the idea of arguing with him feels exhausting and my head aches. So I give in. After peeling off my sweatshirt and draping it over the sink, I kick off my shoes into the corner along with my socks.
When I glance back up, Silas has done the same. He’s standing barefoot, the shower hose in his hand, looking entirely unbothered. There’s something startlingly intimate about seeing him this way; barefoot and at ease in his own home, his usually polished exterior stripped down to something quieter and softer. I avert my gaze, trying to ground myself as I plop into the chair.
Wordlessly, he turns on the faucet, focusing entirely on adjusting the temperature. The sound of the rushing water fills the room, and I close my eyes, letting the noise wash over me. Once satisfied, Silas leans down as he instructs, “Sink back into the seat and let the back of your neck rest here.” A towel is placed over the top edge of the chair, cushioning the hard surface.
Following his directions, I slide lower into the chair until the middle of my neck rests comfortably against the towel. My head hangs back, hair falling freely, and I’m left staring up at the ceiling.
Once I’m settled, he holds the shower head close to my scalp, and I groan in relief as the warm water trickles through the strands and across my skin. He’s considerate as he moves, lifting my hair gently to saturate every piece and being mindful of the welt near the base of my skull, which rests just above the chair’s back.
For a minute, I revel in the quiet, the rhythmic sound of water filling the space between us like a balm. Then Silas’s soothing voice breaks through. “What do you train besides Jiu-Jitsu?”
With my eyes still closed, I smile faintly. “I’ve tried just about everything. I started with boxing, but Jiu-Jitsu has always been a favorite. Muay Thai, kickboxing, MMA, Krav Maga.”
“I like kickboxing too,” Silas admits, shutting off the water momentarily. Behind me, I hear the faint sound of a bottle cap popping.
“Is that why your hands are calloused?” I ask.
He chuckles. “Yes, and from weightlifting.”
There’s a gentle touch to the side of my head before his fingers begin to massage in the shampoo. I’ve always noticed his exceptional dexterity, but nothing prepared me for the sensation of those skilled hands working through my hair. His touch is firm yet careful, his fingers coaxing the tension from my scalp with a tenderness I didn’t know I needed. The breath I release is loud, shaky, and embarrassingly unguarded, but I refuse to hold it in.
“Was that something you did as a kid, or did you pick it up as an adult?” he asks.
“Adult,” I answer, keeping my eyes closed to focus on the way his hands move. “I never could’ve afforded it back then.”
“Ah.” His response is soft, almost self-conscious. “Money was tight growing up?”
It might be the concussion or the exhaustion, but I decide to go with a half-truth instead of outright lying. After all, what’s publicly known about Scarlett Page’s upbringing isn’t far from my own, so it’s easier for me to remember. “Nonexistent is more like it.”
“That must have been hard.”
I shrug, more focused on his touch than the question. His fingers slow for a moment. Too soon, he reaches for the shower head to wash out the suds, and I feel the warmth of the water cascade down my scalp again. “I figured it out,” I answer, my tone deliberately light but hiding the weight behind the words.
“What do you mean you figured it out? Where were your parents? His voice is calm, but there’s a thread of curiosity.
Contemplating my words, I settle on, “My parents weren’t exactly thrilled about one another—or about having me.”
He hesitates. “Did they abandon you?” His voice is tinged with disbelief, as if the concept is utterly foreign to him.
“Emotionally, yes. Financially, mostly.” My response is straightforward, stripped of feeling. This is just a fact, a piece of my past that I’ve grown used to explaining away, even to myself.
“Jesus,” he mutters, his voice heavy with something I can’t quite identify. Anger, maybe, or pity. “I’m sorry, Scarlett.”
The last time anyone expressed genuine empathy for my upbringing was my high school IT teacher and Drew. I even spared Natalie the details of why I don’t speak to them. The emotion feels foreign now, almost uncomfortable. But as foreign as it is, it’s also… freeing. To speak the words aloud to someone who isn’t judging loosens something tight in my chest.
“It is what it is,” I say with a small shrug. “I haven’t seen them since I left for college. It’s better this way. They were poor and miserable, and they took it out on me. We’ve all moved on.”
Silas hums, a low sound that feels like it carries more meaning than just agreement. I can’t tell if he’s protesting the idea or simply processing what I’ve said. But before I can analyze it further, he turns off the water again and combs conditioner through my hair with his fingers. The small tugs on the ends of the strands send shivers down my spine, momentarily wiping away any coherent thought.
After a long pause, I find myself asking quietly, “How was your childhood?” I want to know more about him, to peel back another layer of this version of him who’s still so enigmatic yet unexpectedly warm.
His hands pause for a moment, fingers still tangled in my hair, as if he’s debating how to answer. Finally, he speaks, his voice slower, more thoughtful than before. “It was good, mostly. My parents got along, and my mom always prioritized us and our activities. We didn’t see my dad much, but that was to be expected.”
There’s an ease to his words that draws me in, the faintest trace of nostalgia softening his tone. “We traveled a lot when we were little, and then we went to boarding school outside of Chicago. Our high school years were a little different from most kids’, but they made it to the major events. Everything was… good.”
His voice falters slightly as he continues, a shadow passing over his expression. “Things fell apart for a while after my mom was diagnosed with ovarian cancer and eventually passed. But we’ve mostly been able to work a lot of that out among ourselves since then.”
There isn’t a hint of deceit in his voice, no attempt to paint a picture that isn’t true. He doesn’t mention the trouble Jeremy brought to their table, but his vague references are enough for me to fill in the blanks. For all their losses and struggles, they appear to be a relatively happy family, at least, compared to what I’ve known. That realization settles deep in my stomach, twisting something raw and unfamiliar.
What I would have given to have a sibling. Just one person to be in the trenches with me while dealing with my parents. I never knew what that kind of love and loyalty felt like until Drew. And hearing Silas speak so casually about the foundation his family gave him, even in the face of grief, leaves me aching for something I’ve never had.
“You’re lucky,” I whisper, more to myself than to him.
His fingers still, then continue their careful work. “I know,” he murmurs, his voice heavy with understanding. “But it doesn’t mean it wasn’t messy.”
A heavy silence blankets the room, punctuated only by the soft trickle of water as Silas rinses the last of the conditioner from my hair. He works with quiet precision, squeezing the excess water from the ends before reaching for a towel. The tenderness in his movements feels overwhelming, and when he finally wraps the towel around my head, gently securing it in place, the final frayed piece of composure I’ve been clinging to unravels. It’s all been too much. This day. This conversation. This man.
Hot tears slip silently from the corners of my eyes, tracing cool paths down my temples. They pool in the hollows near my ears as I release slow, shaky breaths, desperate to calm the ache in my chest.
I know he sees the tears; they’re impossible to miss. But he doesn’t comment. Instead, his touch becomes even gentler, his thumbs sweeping across my cheeks in slow, deliberate strokes to wipe away the evidence of my emotions. The quiet acceptance of my breakdown makes everything better and worse all at once.
“Thank you,” I whisper, my voice raw and trembling. I open my eyes to find him standing over me, his expression masked through the blur of my tears. His hands remain on either side of my head, the touch is so delicate that it threatens to break me all over again.
Squeezing my eyes shut, I fight to rein in the wave of emotions threatening to consume me. I need to pull myself together, to find solid ground. But as I sit there, lost in my own thoughts, I almost miss it—the softest, briefest press of lips against the corner of my mouth.
It’s so fleeting, so impossibly tender, that for a moment, I convince myself I’ve imagined it. But then I feel the warmth of his breath against my skin, the faint brush of his nose along my chin. My heart pounds in my chest, every nerve in my body alight and screaming for more. I want to close the distance, to pull him back to me, but he lingers only a moment longer before drawing away, just enough to meet my gaze.
His eyes lock onto mine, deep and unrelenting, as if he’s drawing out every shadow I carry and making them his own. And when he finally speaks, it’s so certain that it feels like a law of nature. An absolute truth.
“Whatever you need, you can have it.”