Chapter 24
W e spent another two hours at my apartment complex finalizing the termination of my lease and giving the police any remaining details that Silas’s team hadn’t already provided. Since the only three units in my hallway belonged to me and two neighbors who worked nights—one as a trauma surgeon, the other as an airline pilot—no one had heard the break-in when it happened. It wasn’t until one of them came home after their shift and found my door open that the police were even called.
Silas insisted on hiring a team to clear out what was left of my place after the investigation wrapped up. I agreed. There wasn’t much worth salvaging anyway. With all my equipment gone, the false-bottom tampon box in my possession, and any remaining important documents locked away in a safe deposit box in Arizona, there was nothing left for anyone to find.
When the police asked to speak with me alone, I was relieved. At least Silas wouldn’t hear my answers if the questions took a strange turn. But before they could begin, they asked me to come down to the station. Silas immediately intervened, arguing that I was in no condition to leave and needed rest. He stated that he could both vouch for and prove my whereabouts the night before, making a trip to the station unnecessary. If they wanted to question me, they could do it here or schedule a time when I was in better shape. Surprisingly, they agreed and for once, I was grateful for Silas’s incessant need for control.
They brought me into my office and asked Silas and the others to step into the hallway outside of the apartment. Once the doors shut behind them, the questions started, and many of them the ones I expected. But they were instantly focused on the photograph of Drew taped to my office window. My best friend. My dead best friend.
I told them who she was, keeping the details vague.
Eventually, they got to the question I dreaded. Did I think there was a connection between her, my attack in the alley yesterday, and now this? I said no. The detectives didn’t look convinced, but it didn’t matter. They weren’t going to find who did this. No one ever would.
The two officers asking the questions let me go not long after, handing me their cards and telling me to call if I thought of anything else. Then they sent me on my way so they could finish processing the crime scene.
By the time we leave, exhaustion drags at my limbs. I don’t look back as we step into the car, don’t spare a glance at the apartment I’ll never return to.
After a quick pit stop to pick up a new SIM card, we return to Silas’s home. I excuse myself to the guest room under the pretense of setting up my phone and calling my credit card providers. Silas agrees easily, mentioning he has a few calls to make, including one to Davey for an update.
With my tote bag of belongings in hand, I take the back staircase to the guest bedroom, shut the door, and quietly lock it. Dropping the bag to the floor, I meticulously comb over every inch of the space: the furniture, floorboards, molding cracks, even the air vents. I don’t find a single sign of surveillance. No cameras. No microphones. Nothing. Silas, for all his protective tendencies, seems to trust his guests enough to grant them privacy. I’ll need it if I’m going to keep staying under his roof.
The next couple of hours pass in a blur of technology. After thoroughly inspecting the new phone, I find Silas only opened it to add his number and Natalie’s new one. A quick dive into the phone’s settings allows me to encrypt all stored data and set up my VPN. By the time I’m done, the phone feels like an extension of me, a fortress of digital safety in the middle of chaos. The familiarity of it calms me in a way nothing else has since this mess began.
Contacting the banks to cancel my credit cards is quick and painless, mostly because I know I can never use them again. Those cards were Peter’s tools, connected to identities that don’t truly exist. They were my safety net for jobs, a layer of separation between me and the information I sought. But now they’re compromised, like everything else.
Needing something to occupy my restless mind, I unpack the reusable grocery bag. The socks and leggings go into a dresser drawer, and my preferred toiletries replace the ones Silas provided. Opening the stash box, I pull out a spare Scarlett ID and replace it with the ripped photo of Drew before tucking it carefully in the back of the bathroom vanity under the sink.
By the time I finish, the clock reads 3:42. Silas has been on calls for as long as I’ve been busy, likely catching up on the work he’s pushed aside for me these last few days. I’m left to my own devices in a house I was once instructed to infiltrate. The realization hits me like a tidal wave, sinking me deeper into the guilt that’s been threatening to drown me for weeks.
Silas doesn’t deserve this. None of it. But Natalie doesn’t deserve Peter’s wrath, either. I’ve seen firsthand what Peter’s capable of. The message he left, etched across my life with Drew’s defaced photo pinned to my window, was loud and clear. I can’t let him turn his attention to Natalie to punish me. Peter can do whatever he wants to me. That much, I can take. But he won’t touch her.
Getting into Silas’s office undetected will be next to impossible, but there is still a chance the servers exist somewhere in this house. If I have to break whatever fragile trust I’ve built with Silas to find out, so be it. My happiness will never outweigh Natalie’s safety. I just have to move quickly and cleanly: get in, get out, and minimize the damage.
At least, that’s what I tell myself. I glance around the room and my chest tightens. A flicker of doubt presses against the back of my mind.
I hope fewer people will get hurt.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I square my shoulders and unlock the bedroom door. Security cameras cover every inch of the communal spaces; I noticed them during the auction and in the past day. If Cillian or anyone else is monitoring the feed, they need to believe I’m just being nosy, not looking for anything in particular. That shouldn’t be difficult to sell, considering how our first encounter went a few weeks ago.
The hallway is still and the silence presses on my ears. I keep my footsteps light, moving with deliberate slowness to appear as though I’m wandering aimlessly. My heart, however, is racing, each beat a countdown I can’t ignore.
The first thing that catches my eye is the staircase leading to the attic, its entrance tucked into a corner between another bedroom and Silas’s office. If the servers exist anywhere in this house, the attic seems like a good place to start. Its seclusion would make it ideal for housing sensitive equipment.
At the top of the stairs, I’m shocked to find a cozy movie room instead. A massive sectional sprawls across the center of the space, its plush cushions draped with soft blankets. A vintage popcorn machine gleams in one corner, shiny and clearly used. Recessed lights cast a warm glow over the room, and a wall-mounted screen dominates the far end, framed by slated ceilings. It’s comfortable and completely at odds with the rest of the house’s polished formality.
However, there’s nothing useful here. No servers. No equipment. Just an unexpected glimpse into a part of Silas I didn’t know existed.
I back out quietly, retracing my steps to the second floor to continue my search past Silas’s office and the main staircase. Though I peeked into some of the other rooms at the auction, it might seem odd if I walked straight past them now.
I take a moment to peer into each one, looking for anything unusual like locked closets, hidden panels, even oddly placed outlets. But each room is what it seems: a bedroom.
Finally, I reach the end of the hallway, where the back stairwell comes into view. I glance into the half-bath and the laundry room, chuckling at the absurd size, just as I had the first time I saw it.
“Looking for something?”
The voice behind me sends a surge of adrenaline straight to my chest. I spin around, nearly tripping over my own feet in the process. Silas stands at the corner of the hallway with his hands in the front pockets of his pants, one brow lifted in question, and his lips tugged up into a lopsided smirk.
“You’re creepily quiet, did you know that?” I blurt, scrambling to deflect. Straightening, I plaster on what I hope passes for a sheepish smile.
“I’ll add that to my resume,” he teases. “Right under ‘freakishly good CEO.’” He straightens and strides toward me. His chest brushes against my shoulder as he leans past me to look into the room. “So,” he starts, “what’s so funny about my laundry room?”
“Everything,” I reply without hesitation, waving my hand toward it. “Who in their right mind needs five washers and dryers?”
“Someone who hosts visitors,” he counters smoothly.
“And who are you hosting? The entire Royal Family?” I quip, arching a brow.
Before I can fully process the playful gleam in his eye, Silas grabs the hand I gestured with, his grip firm but not painful. In one fluid motion, he twists my arm behind my back and pulls me flush against him. I gasp sharply, my pulse hammering in my ears. The hard planes of his chest and stomach press against my back, the warmth of his body radiating through our clothes.
He leans down, his nose grazing the shell of my ear. My eyes flutter shut instinctively, savoring his closeness for just a moment too long. Then he whispers, voice low and dripping with that confidence that makes me want to punch him and kiss him all at once. “Has anyone ever told you that mouth is going to get you into trouble?”
Every time he brings up my mouth, I feel like every vein in my body is about to burst. It seems to be his favorite line when it comes to my attitude. Or maybe it’s mine.
“Some rich asshole has told me once or twice,” I manage to reply, my tone deliberately flippant. But I know the effect he’s having on me, and so does he.
Lust wins over my better judgment for a fraction of a second, and I tilt my head, exposing the column of my neck to him. The movement makes Silas rumble in approval, his free hand sliding down to squeeze my hip.
“Would you like a tour,” he murmurs, his lips hovering millimeters from the sensitive skin beneath my jaw, “or do you prefer snooping around on your own?”
All I can think about is what it would feel like if he pressed those lips against me, tasting me. He’s the kind of man who knows exactly how to use his tongue; I can tell just by looking at him. The thought alone sends a shiver down my spine.
I exhale a shaky breath, forcing myself to focus. This is dangerous territory, and I can’t afford to lose myself in it. Not now. Not when I need to stay sharp. This tour could be the perfect opportunity to scope out the areas he’s avoided showing me so far, to test his reactions and see if any of my questions hit a nerve.
With every ounce of willpower I can muster, I swallow the desire bubbling up inside me and say, “I’d love a tour.”
Silas freezes, clearly caught off guard by my honest answer. Slowly, he releases my hand from behind my back, his fingers trailing down my wrist before intertwining with mine. Then, he spins me around so we’re face-to-face, chest-to-chest. His eyes burn into mine, dark and smoldering like molten chocolate.
“Where haven’t you looked yet?” he asks, his voice softer now. His glasses slide slightly down the bridge of his nose as he stares at me, his expression unreadable. Without thinking, I reach up with my free hand and push them back into place.
The intimacy of the gesture doesn’t hit me until it’s too late. His jaw tightens, the corner of his mouth twitching as though he’s fighting a smile. A faint flush creeps up my neck.
I drop my gaze to his Adam’s apple, my palm suddenly feeling sweaty against his. “First floor and basement,” I admit.
“So you went into the attic?” A faint note of curiosity laces his tone as he guides us toward the back stairs. As we begin to descend, his elbow locks securely, ensuring I’m steady.
“I have to admit,” I say, glancing at him from the corner of my eye, “that was a bit of a surprise. I didn’t peg you as the cozy-movie-room type.”
Silas raises a brow, a flicker of amusement playing across his features. “What exactly does that mean?”
“I mean, the vintage popcorn machine kind of gave you away,” I tease. “It’s a little too wholesome for the guy I assumed reads business magazines in his sleep.”
He lets out a chuckle, shaking his head as though the image genuinely entertains him. “Maybe I like stories that don’t involve quarterly reports or board meetings,” he replies, his voice dipping into something more honest. “It’s nice to escape somewhere else for a little while.”
I blink, caught off guard by his candor. We reach the landing in the middle of the stairs and turn down the next set. “Huh. Silas Wells, movie buff. Who would’ve thought?”
“You don’t have to sound so shocked,” he retorts, tilting his head as he looks at me.
Grinning, I press on. “What’s your favorite movie?”
For the first time, I see something that might resemble a faint blush tinting his sculpted cheekbones. He shrugs, his usual confidence momentarily replaced by something almost bashful. “ Inception .”
I stop short at the bottom of the stairs, twisting to face him fully. “Wait. Seriously?”
“Is that judgment I hear?” His tone is laced with mock indignation, though the faint blush lingers, betraying his amusement.
“I just didn’t see you as a fan of dreams within dreams and spinning tops,” I say quickly, fighting to keep a straight face. “I bet you’re the guy who pauses the movie to give everyone a lecture on the layers of the plot.”
Silas huffs out a low laugh, his thumb absently brushing against my knuckles. “What can I say? I like movies that make you think.”
I narrow my eyes at him, as though studying him anew. “I also bet you think the top is still spinning at the end.”
He leans in ever so slightly. “And what do you think?”
Matching his energy, I tilt my chin defiantly. “I think you want it to keep spinning because you can’t stand the idea of not having all the answers.”
Delight sparks in his eyes, and the edges of his lips tug upward in a half-smile. “You’re a piece of work, you know that?”
“You invited me here,” I remind him, smirking as I step ahead of him.
“That I did,” he murmurs, his voice low and rich. “And what about your favorite movie?”
I pause, weighing my options before letting out an exaggerated sigh. “Fine. The Devil Wears Prada. ”
Silas’s brow quirks. “And you’re giving me grief about Inception ?”
“Don’t knock it,” I defend, crossing my arms. “It’s a great story. And, honestly, you’d probably relate a lot to Miranda Priestly.”
His grin widens, slow and dangerous. “Would I?”
“Tell me your employees don’t know when you’re pissed off with a single look,” I say, mimicking Meryl Streep’s icy stare. “She could have been created in your image.”
Silas laughs outright this time, the sound echoes down the darker hallway. “I think I liked it better when you were snooping around quietly.”
“Too late,” I reply, tossing him a triumphant smirk.
He exhales a small sigh, rolling his eyes as he motions toward the hallway I hadn’t explored before. Without missing a beat, he flips on the light to the first room, the warm glow spilling into the hallway as he steps inside. “Alright,” he says over his shoulder, his tone tinged with both amusement and exasperation. “Let’s start your tour.”
–
Silas’s tour lasted over thirty minutes as he walked me through every inch of his sprawling home. We skipped the rooms I had already seen—the kitchen, garage, entry, den, formal dining room, two formal sitting rooms, and terrace—but paused briefly in the music room, now free of the silent auction items. Without the clutter of displays, the space felt more intimate, its soft lighting and polished piano evoking a quiet elegance.
He showed me a small office on the first floor, a space I imagined he reserved for conversations with colleagues he wasn’t comfortable bringing into his study upstairs. The room was sparse, devoid of personal touches, with only a writing desk, a few chairs, and minimalist decorations. There were several bathrooms scattered throughout, storage rooms for his staff that held linens and glassware, an oversized library, and a billiards room complete with a sleek wet bar and vintage cues displayed on the walls.
The basement was just as impressive. The stairs opened up to a striking wine cellar, its walls lined with bottles that looked like artwork. A hallway branched off to the side, leading to two additional spaces: a fully equipped gym with a sauna that rivaled any luxury fitness club and a security office that was more of a fortress than a workspace.
The office was self-sufficient, complete with a small living area, a full bathroom, and a kitchenette. In the back corner was the surveillance room, its walls lined with over a dozen monitors displaying security footage from every corner of the mansion, both inside and out. Cillian was seated at the main desk, flipping through paperwork, utterly unfazed by our sudden presence. I didn’t fail to notice that none of the video feeds were in bedrooms or bathrooms. Confirmation of a subtle yet deliberate boundary I appreciated more than I expected.
Throughout the tour, I kept my focus on Silas, asking a few pointed questions about his security setup. He answered each one without hesitation. There was no caution, no suspicion. Just an openness that burned through me, making me acutely aware of how deeply I was burying my own truths.
We finish just outside our bedroom doors, and Silas gives me a mischievous smile, his hand paused on the handle of his room. “Did you snoop through my bedroom before I found you?”
I roll my eyes at him, leaning back against the wall. “Contrary to popular belief, I do have boundaries.”
“You do?” He arches a brow.
“I do,” I insist, crossing my arms. “Someone else here is the one intent on breaking them.”
His grin widens, wicked and unrepentant. Without a word, he pushes open the door to his room, stepping aside and waving me in with a dramatic flourish. “Be my guest.”
Hesitantly, I take a step over the threshold, instantly enveloped by everything that is Silas Wells.
The room is as vast as I expected, but its understated décor makes it feel cozier. Against the pale gray walls stands a bed with an upholstered headboard in a muted rust color. The charcoal-gray duvet is folded back in the meticulous way you’d find in a luxury hotel, exposing crisp white sheets beneath navy-blue accent pillows. Above the bed, two framed pieces of art hang in perfect balance: one a serene landscape, the other a brooding portrait of a man with sharp features and, between them, a round wooden clock that ties the space together effortlessly.
Flanking the bed are matching wooden nightstands, each adorned with a lamp featuring pleated shades, a small stack of well-chosen books, and a single potted plant. The floor-length curtains in deep olive drape heavily over the tall windows, their fabric pooling on the dark hardwood floors. Beneath the bed, an ornate rug in faded patterns of muted blues and creams soften the dark tones of the polished wood.
At the foot of the bed sits a leather bench, positioned to face the period -appropriate fireplace directly across the room. Tucked in the corner is an oversized chair in dark blue with a matching footrest. I can easily imagine Silas sitting on it at the end of a long day, elbow resting on the arm while his hand rubs at his temples.
“This is beautiful,” I breathe out, twisting slowly as I take it all in. It’s not at all what I expected: warmer, softer, more personal. But in a way, it makes perfect sense. Nothing about Silas has been what I expected.
“I agree,” Silas murmurs, his voice low and steady. I glance back at him, expecting to see his gaze sweeping across the space, taking in its understated beauty. But he isn’t looking at his perfectly decorated bedroom.
He’s looking at me.
My breath catches, his expression so precisely focused that it sends a ripple of heat through me. He leans casually against the door frame, arms crossed, one ankle over the other, as though he has all the time in the world to watch me.
Silas’s words linger in the air for only a moment before he starts to move, pushing off the threshold and taking a step closer. “I’ve thought about you being in this room a lot,” he says, his voice low and warm, each word wrapping around me like a velvet tether. “Somehow, it’s already better than what I imagined.”
The gravity of his admission and my heart hammering drown out any rational thought. His coffee-colored gaze locks onto mine and darken when I don’t immediately bolt, but I can’t even feel my legs enough to move. This isn’t the usual teasing flirtation or passing touches. It’s a promise—not just to take what he wants, but to tip us both over the edge, the culmination of every subtle push that’s brought me here.
“Silas,” I begin in an unsteady attempt to maintain control. “Don’t say things like that.”
“Why not?” He closes the space between us. “It’s the truth.”
Only when we’re inches apart does his hand snake around my back, palm pressing firmly against the fabric of my sweater, drawing me closer. I inhale sharply, shaking my head as though it’ll lessen the tension crackling in the air. “This isn’t a good idea,” I whisper, though my words lack conviction.
“No?” His tone is a soft challenge as his free hand brushes a stray piece of hair from my scraped cheek. His fingers graze the edges of my bruise. “I think it’s the best idea I’ve had in a very long time.”
“It’ll mess everything up,” I say, my voice barely audible. My hands hover awkwardly at my sides, unsure whether to push him away or pull him closer. His thumb traces lazy circles against my lower back, sending sparks skittering across my skin.
“You really think that?” His forehead tilts toward mine, the warmth of his breath brushing against my lips. The closeness is intoxicating, and I feel my resolve fraying with every second. His hand trails slowly up my neck, the pads of his fingers sliding just behind my ear before curling into the base of my hair. The touch is electric, his grip mindful to avoid the welt near my skull.
“Yes,” I manage.
For a long moment, he doesn’t move. His gaze drops to my mouth, then back to my eyes, searching, waiting. “Tell me to stop,” he murmurs, his voice tense, like a coil wound too tight and ready to snap.
I should. I should tell him to stop. But my thoughts are muddled, my willpower faltering. My gaze roams his face, tracing the lines of his jaw, the stubble that shadows it, the slight crook of his nose, and finally, his lips; full, slightly parted, and devastatingly close. My hesitation stretches into silence, and that silence is all the permission he needs to press his lips to mine.
He begins slowly—exploring, learning. Testing. Tasting. It’s everything I expected and nothing like I imagined. As if he’s savoring the moment, committing every detail to memory. But when his tongue grazes the seam of my lips, seeking entry, I part for him, and the moment I do, my world tilts on its axis.
His tongue sweeps inside, demanding and relentless. Fingers tighten in my hair, threading deeper, a possessive hold that angles my head just where he wants it. His other arm locks tighter around me, evaporating the space between us until I can feel every hard, unyielding inch of him. Then his teeth catch my lip, a sharp bite that blurs the line between pain and pleasure, unraveling every rational thought in its wake.
My hands, once hesitant, now clutch at the front of his sweater. Every nerve in my body is on fire, responding to him like it already owns his. He feels like home and chaos all at once. A guttural sound escapes my throat, and it only seems to spur him on.
The surrounding air grows thin, and I’m lost in the taste of his mouth, the strength of his hold, the way he consumes me without hesitation or apology. I knew he would feel like this—like being rewritten from the inside out. His touch almost hurts as it engraves itself on my skin, burning a path that embeds itself in my DNA. He’s everywhere. Everything.
But then, as if the universe conspired to pull us back to reality, the sharp vibration of his phone cuts through the haze. The sound jolts, and I pull back, trying to take a shaky step away. Silas doesn’t let me move more than a centimeter. His hands linger in my hair, holding my forehead to his as we both catch our breath.
The phone continues to ring, and he exhales sharply, the sound laced with frustration. His hand at my waist moves to retrieve the device from his pocket. “It’s Davey,” he mutters, his jaw tightening. He looks up, something unspoken flickering in his expression: regret, longing, maybe both. “I have to take this. Stay here. I’ll be back soon.”
Before I can respond, he presses a final, fleeting kiss to my lips before turning and answering the call. “What is it?” His tone is clipped, all business, as he strides out of the room and down the hallway toward his office.
As the door clicks shut behind him, the silence rushes in, deafening. My heart pounds in my ears, drowning out my thoughts as I lean back against the edge of the bed.
How did I let it come to this? I know better. I’ve always known better. This is wrong. A betrayal. Not just of him, but of the fragile boundaries I swore to maintain. How had I let myself fall so far?
The answer is bitter and unavoidable: Because I’m selfish. I let him because I wanted this.
But there’s no world where this ends well. I’m the storm that will tear through everything he’s trying to keep safe. And yet, here I am, adding fuel to the fire.
So, I do what I do best.
I run.
Pushing off the bed and crossing the room, I grab the door handle with shaking fingers and slip across the hall to the guest room, shutting and locking the door behind me without looking back.