11. Silas
CHAPTER ELEVEN
T he ache wouldn’t ease, no matter how hard I pushed.
It burned low and constant, wedged beneath my ribs. Every pull of muscle, every bead of sweat sliding down my collarbones and bare chest only stoked it.
I gripped the pull-up bar tighter, knuckles aching, palms damp against the cold steel as I forced my body upward, again and again, ignoring the way my arms shook like they were seconds away from giving out.
Oxygen ripped through my clenched teeth, my lungs burning with every laboured breath, but it wasn’t enough.
Not enough to clear my head. Not enough to stop the tension twisting tighter in my chest. And sure as hell not enough to get her out of my mind.
It’d been days since I’d vowed to myself that I’d stay away from her, and I was barely keeping it together.
No more gifts waiting on her doorstep before sunrise. No more lingering in the background, keeping an eye on her when she didn’t know I was there.
The only thing I’d allowed myself to do was check the damn doorbell feed. Just in case. Because not knowing about at least one aspect of her safety wasn’t an option. That part hadn’t changed. Would never change.
But everything else? It was different. Off. Twisted into something I couldn’t name. And it was pissing me off.
The floor-to-ceiling windows of my private gym stretched out before me, the city sprawling beyond the glass in endless streaks of pale dusk and neon glow. From up here, everything had always felt quiet. Controlled.
But not tonight.
I hadn’t meant for her to catch me. I didn’t know how she had.
I’d been careful. But the door had swung open, her voice had cut through the air, and I’d frozen.
I hadn’t known what to do. Run? Stay? Pretend I was a passerby out for a casual morning jog in full winter gear like a totally normal, well-adjusted person and not some complete creep?
I moved to the bench press, the clang of steel weights slicing through the silence as I slid the plates into place.
This wasn’t about strength, it wasn’t about gains or endurance or any of the usual bullshit.
It was about shutting out the thoughts I couldn’t bury no matter how deep I tried to shove them.
Shutting out the strange, clawing sensation at the edges of my mind that refused to let go.
Shutting out the image of her standing there in the early morning glow, a goddamn gun levelled at me, wearing nothing but an oversized T-shirt and the messiest bed head I’d ever seen.
I should’ve been focused on the weapon. On the fact she was whisper-shouting at me, half-feral, all fire.
But my brain did the dumbest thing it could’ve possibly done.
It rewired. Shifted. Fucked off completely into primal mode.
And I looked.
I hadn’t meant to. I really hadn’t meant to.
But she was right there.
That T-shirt draped over soft curves, fabric pulling in places it had no business clinging to. The way it slipped off one shoulder, exposing smooth skin and tiny constellations, the delicate slope of her collarbone catching the sunrise—then lower.
Her thighs.
Thick, soft, inked.
Flowers, books, intricate whirls of ink traced along full, plush skin, the lines curling over the curve of those beautiful legs that I very suddenly wanted to see more of.
Stop it.
I lowered the bar, chest burning as the weight pressed down. My arms trembled with the strain as I pushed it back up, gritting my teeth and willing the burn to take over.
She’d called me out on my staring. And I’d completely forgotten that she was holding me at gunpoint.
Because in that moment, she didn’t think I was the idiot who had spent weeks making sure she was safe from actual threats.
No.
She thought that I was the threat. She thought I was Clark. She thought Clark had sent me.
How the hell had I not even considered she might think the gifts were from him?
How stupid was I?
To her, I wasn’t some well intentioned stranger looking out for her. I was a lunatic lurking outside her door at the ass-crack of dawn .
And what did I do? Did I calmly explain that I wasn’t a threat? Did I reassure her that I wasn’t there to hurt her? That I’d only shown up to deliver something I thought might keep her safe without my interference?
Nope. My brain had glitched even more, and for some unbeknownst reason, I’d waved at her.
Waved at her. I may as well have shot her finger guns and a wink.
If you looked up ‘moron’ in the thesaurus, you’d find my stupid face listed under the definition.
And to top off the insanity of the whole moment?
She said I had pretty eyes…
Lilith called me pretty.
What was I supposed to do with that?
The quiet chime of the private elevator echoing through the penthouse stopped me mid-way through a set of bicep curls.
There were only four other people on the planet with access to that elevator.
And unless Mamma and my sisters had suddenly decided to cross more than a few state lines, unannounced—an event that would require six months of planning, three thousand texts, and a PowerPoint presentation—there was only one other person it could be, and he better have a damn good reason for showing up.
The dumbbells hit the rack with a clang, and I caught my reflection in the mirrored wall.
My chest was rising and falling way too hard, whirls of tattoos stretched tight against my muscles, sweat dripping down my body.
A few damp curls clung to my forehead, and my jaw was locked like I was seconds away from snapping at someone.
“You’ve got something wrong with you,” I muttered to myself, twisting the cap off my water bottle and taking a steady pull, the cool water unfortunately doing nothing to settle the contradictory storm that was running riot in my head.
I grabbed a towel and dragged it across the back of my neck as I stepped out of the gym, my bare soles meeting the chill of the cool hardwood that stretched across the open-plan floor.
The kitchen came into view as I crossed the space. It was perfect, like the rest of the penthouse—warm wood and white marble streaked with grey, a copper range hood gleaming over the island. There was no clutter. No misplaced utensils. It was clean. Orderly. The way everything should be.
The one thing fucking it up was the sound of someone loudly rummaging through my fridge.
I stopped mid-step, head tilting slightly as I stared right at the cause.
Sure enough, there he was, hanging halfway out of the enormous, double fridge like he was searching for the lost city of Atlantis in the vegetable drawer .
“Are you planning on moving in there?” I muttered as I watched him shift containers around with the grace of a bear foraging for leftovers.
Finn didn’t even flinch, just called out over his shoulder. “You have nothing in here, man. Do you even eat? Or do you just live off black coffee and misplaced rage?”
Crossing my arms, I leaned against the marble island.
“There’s plenty in there. Just nothing you like. Sorry it’s not all candy and whatever processed garbage keeps you alive.”
He rummaged deep, then held up a container of cherry tomatoes. “This,” he shook it, scowling. “Is not food.”
“You know where the door is.”
He huffed, then paused—mid-motion, mid-thought, mid-everything. I sighed, already bracing for whatever bullshit was about to leave his mouth.
“Alright, that’s it,” he snapped.
“What?”
“This. You.” He gestured wildly in my direction. “It’s been weeks. No, months. Maybe a whole damn year? When’s the last time you went out?”
“I go out.”
“For meetings, you antisocial motherfucker.” He shot back. “I mean out. You. Me. Drinks. Women. Some poor choices we’ll regret in the morning.”
I twisted the cap off my water bottle and took a slow sip. “Pass.”
He groaned. “You’re such a miserable bastard.”
“Yup.”
“Don’t even try to tell me you’re busy.”
“I’m busy.”
“You’re a liar and a recluse.”
“Correct.”
He clasped his hands together, mock pleading. “Just one drink. That’s all I’m asking.”
I squinted at him over the rim of the bottle. “One drink?”
He nodded too fast, too eager. “One.”
I was too tired for this. But maybe I did need a distraction. A break from my own bullshit.
“Fine.”
He lit up like a damn Christmas tree. “Hell yeah! Strip club or dive bar?”
I pinched the bridge of my nose. “I need a shower.”
His grin didn’t waver. “That’s not an answer.”
I sighed heavily, turning toward the hallway. “I hate you.”
His laughter followed me as I walked away. “Yeah, yeah. Hurry up, grandpa. You’ll thank me later! ”
The second the bathroom door shut, his laughter faded.
But the silence that followed wasn’t the relief it should’ve been.
For two whole minutes, I was fine. Finn’s bullshit had cured me, cut through the fog, ripped me out of my downward spiral.
But obviously that wasn’t meant to last. Because there she was again. Burned into the back of my eyelids. Tangled into every thought without her knowing.
The shower hummed to life beneath my fingers as I twisted the dial. Steam curled into the air, swirling around me, dampening my skin before the water even touched me.
My pulse was still too high. My thoughts? Even worse.
She was divine. What I wouldn’t do to kneel before those legs.
To press my lips against the warmth of her skin, trace every inch with my tongue, feel the tremor in her muscles as she—
No. Absolutely not.
I needed help. Professional, clinical, maybe even spiritual help. A lobotomy. An exorcism.
I yanked at the waistband of my joggers, stripping them off.
I’d messed up. Not just some minor, easily salvageable misstep.
No. I’d completely fucked up.
Utterly.
Beyond repair.
This was never supposed to happen.
Watching was fine. Keeping her safe from the shadows, making sure she was okay without her ever knowing I was there—that had been the plan. That’d been the whole point.
Stay in the background. Never get too close.
I’d convinced myself that my watching and the gifts weren’t a problem, that the crossed lines weren’t an issue, because I wasn’t really crossing them. But now?
She was wrapped around my ribs, a slow, unbearable ache that I didn’t know how to untangle.
Which is exactly why I needed to stay the hell away.
Because wanting her was one thing? But ruining her?
I’d destroy every single thing I’d worked for before I ever subjected her to that.