8. Silas
CHAPTER EIGHT
I t was the perfect night—red wine, a good book, and silence.
And yet, I couldn’t focus on a single goddamn word.
It’d been a long few days. Overseeing the development of a new security program, dealing with HR over one of our newer employees who apparently had the worst concept of professionalism, back-to-back calls, and general corporate bullshit.
But none of that was what was really weighing on me. It was four days ago. That moment. I’d never been so embarrassed in my life.
Fucking ‘ bike.’
I should’ve just taken it for what it was—a well-earned kick in the teeth. A reminder as to why I needed to stay the hell away.
If it wasn’t for the scarf, she would’ve seen me.
Really seen me.
And that couldn’t happen.
And yet I still hadn’t stopped.
Every morning, without fail, I still dropped off something for her, taking a detour before I headed to the office.
I couldn’t help but think if she ever wondered who was leaving them, or if she took them in her stride, enjoying them without a second thought.
Did she smile when she found them? Did she sip the coffee absently while flipping through the pages, completely unaware of the man whose mind she was on every single day?
My phone lit up on the coffee table, a soft buzz breaking through the quiet.
Motion Alert.
My fingers tightened around the phone.
Lilith didn’t leave the house this late.
I swiped the notification.
Clark. Pounding on her door.
The book in my lap slid to the floor with a dull thud and I stormed across the room, snatching my keys off the kitchen island. Blood roared through my ears, drowning out everything but the singular, violent need to get him away from her house.
I tore through the penthouse, yanking the elevator door open before it had even finished sliding, slamming my palm against the panel.
Too slow.
The second the doors opened, I was out, feet hitting the polished floors hard as I sprinted for the garage.
My car sat in the far corner. Sleek, black, ready and waiting. The moment I slid into the driver’s seat, the engine growled to life, deep and hungry, the low rumble vibrating through my bones.
I’m not too late.
I didn’t know what this feeling was—this sharp, instinctive urge to move, to go. But I didn’t have time to unpack it, didn’t have time to sit and analyse the twisted knot of rage and panic curling tight in my chest.
All I knew was that the thought of that piece of shit forcing his way into her space, pressing too close, crowding her the way he had at the gala—
Go. Now. Stop him.
In what felt like five seconds flat, I was reaching into the back seat, grabbing my hoodie and scarf, yanking them on as quickly as I could.
Then I was out, shutting the door without a sound.
Don’t d o something reckless.
I slipped into the shadows across the street, gaze locked onto her front door. I couldn’t see a damn thing, but I forced myself to stay rooted, forced every muscle in my body to obey one simple command— wait .
The door flew open.
Clark stormed out, the door slamming hard enough that the sound echoed down the empty street. His face was twisted, jaw tight, lips pressed into a sneer as he stomped toward the pavement. “Stupid bitch,” he muttered under his breath.
Rage simmered beneath my skin.
How fucking dare he.
There was a pull, an instinct, a raw, gut-deep need to rip him apart.
I had to be careful though. If I grabbed him right now, he might connect the dots. Or he might go back to her for help. And that? That wasn’t happening.
This had to look like nothing. Like coincidence. Like bad luck. Like he was just some guy in the wrong place at the wrong time.
I was going to follow him. That much was already decided.
But I had to be smart about it .
So I trailed after him. Shadowed his every move, step for step, staying just out of sight as he kept walking, venturing into quieter streets, muttering to himself, still pissed that whatever happened, hadn’t gone his way.
He didn’t even hear me coming.
One second, he was sulking on the pavement. The next, I was dragging him into the shadows by the scruff of his jacket.
“What the—?!” His voice cracked as he flailed, twisting in my grip.
I said I had to be smart.
I said nothing about being gentle.
“Shut the fuck up.” I growled, hauling him backward, off the main road—somewhere darker, somewhere quiet. Somewhere no one would hear him.
A small, wooded patch tucked between old buildings, half-forgotten, damp with rain and rotting leaves.
His back slammed into a tree with a satisfying thud, eyes darting up, searching mine, and cazzo —he was small. So much smaller in my grip. Shorter, weaker, pathetic.
His lips parted, but whatever he tried to say dissolved into a stuttering mess. His hands clawed at mine, shoving against my grip, but he might as well have been pushing at a brick wall. I didn’t budge an inch.
I tightened my grip on his shirt, hauling him up until his shoes barely skimmed the dirt.
“W-what do y-you want?” His voice shook.
Oh shit, what’s my excuse?
I couldn’t exactly go with ‘ Oh, surprise! This is a personal vendetta and you’re about to have a very bad night!’
No, that would be stupid.
Think. Think.
My grip tightened.
Think faster, idiot.
“Give me your money.”
What? That was what I was going with?
His head jerked back, a flicker of confusion flashing across his disgusting little face. “W-what? D-don’t hurt me, p-please.”
“Shut the fuck up, Clark.”
Oh, idiot. Silas. Idiot. Idiot.
“W-what? Who—who are you?!” His voice shook, cracking on the last word.
I ignored him. Just held him there for a sec, letting him sweat.
Maybe I would take his wallet, just for making me improvise.
“Doesn’t matter,” I said .
His lips quivered, his hands shaking where they clutched at my wrist like he could pry me off. He couldn’t.
“What matters…” I trailed off, leaning in so close I could feel the tremble of his breath against my face.
What matters is that you don’t go near Lilith ever again. Not her house. Not her work. Nowhere.
But I couldn’t say that. No matter how hot and heavy the words were on my tongue. Couldn’t let him know that this wasn’t about the money I definitely didn’t need, or the fact that I just really, really wanted to break his face.
“Money. Now.”
His throat bobbed. “I—I don’t have anything!”
I didn’t want to play this game. I just wanted him to hurt.
So I made it hurt.
My fist connected with his face, and his head snapped violently to the side, the crunch of bone splitting through the air, raw and wet and satisfying.
His strangled yelp turned into a choked gag. Hot, thick blood spilled from his lip, trailing down his chin.
Maybe he’d see this as some karmic retribution. Or maybe I’d have to hit him again. Either was fine by me.
“You think you can do whatever you want?” My grip tightened with every word. “That there won’t be consequences?”
He coughed and wet his split lip with his tongue, spitting red onto the dirt like he had something to prove. “I didn’t do shit.”
Wrong answer.
Knuckles met cartilage with a sickening crack.
He made a horrible, garbled noise, hands flying up too late. Blood gushed this time, rushing down and soaking into his jacket.
“Try again,” I said. “ What didn’t you do?”
He wasn’t flailing anymore. Wasn’t fighting. Just losing.
“Just—just let me go.”
So I did.
He collapsed in a limp heap at my feet, gasping as the air knocked out of him, arms scrambling against the dirt like he wasn’t sure whether to run or to curl into himself.
He didn’t get the luxury of choice.
I pulled back and drove my boot into his ribs as hard as I could. The impact was solid, and he rolled, coughing violently, one arm clutching his ribs as the other hand fisted the dirt beneath him.
I lowered myself into a crouch by his side and reached into his pocket, yanking out his wallet and flipping it open .
Cash. A lot of it.
I hummed, flicking through the bills like I actually gave a shit. “You flash this around like it makes you untouchable. Like it means you don’t have to answer to anyone.”
“Listen, man,” he gasped. “If this is about the segment on feminism in the workplace. I didn’t mean it. I just needed to stir engagement for the station, alright? That’s all it was.”
My lips tugged into a slow smirk under my scarf.
Perfect .
I let out a slow breath, rolling my shoulders back like I was calming myself down, like that was exactly why I was here.
“Right,” I muttered, clicking my tongue. “Gotta get those ratings up, huh?”
He nodded quickly, desperate. “Yeah. Exactly. That’s all it was. Just business.”
Business. Sure.
I slipped the cash from his wallet, tucking it into my pocket.
“See, here’s the thing.” I rose to my full height, towering over him as he tried and failed to breathe through the pain. “Sooner or later, you hurt the wrong person. And when that happens—”
A sharp, acrid scent hit the air.
Is that…?
He’d pissed himself.
Gesù Cristo.
I let the silence stretch, let him lay in his own mess of blood, piss and dirt.
“Actions have consequences, Clark. And this? This was your consequence. Do you understand me?”
He didn’t answer. He hesitated. A flicker of something passed across his bloodied face. Something defiant, something stupid. Whatever it was, I didn’t like it. Not one bit.
I grabbed a fistful of his jacket, yanking him forward so fast his head snapped back like a ragdoll. “I said, do you fucking understand me?!”
“Y-yes!” he sputtered. “I—I understand! I swear! I understand!”
“Good.” I released him with a shove. “Now, run.”
He didn’t wait, didn’t try to save face, just scrambled up so quickly he almost tripped over his own feet. His hands flailed, barely catching himself before he hit the pavement. But he didn’t stop, just bolted down the street with a big damp patch spreading across his pants.
My hands dropped to my knees, entire body bowing forward as I forced out a breath.
It was done. It was over .
He was nothing more than a lesson learned in bruises and broken ribs. A reminder that actions had consequences. Maybe next time, he’d think twice. Maybe this would train him into staying the fuck away from people who wanted nothing to do with him.
Especially Lilith.