63. Lilith
CHAPTER SIXTY THREE
L oud. Too fucking loud.
I flinched awake, heart hammering, eyes flying open as I jerked u pright. My vision swam, disoriented in the dark, my ears ringing from the god-awful noise.
What the fuck?
It was deafening—sharp and shrieking, reverberating through the penthouse like the whole damn place was collapsing in on itself.
My stomach dropped.
Was that…
The fire alarm.
Oh, shit.
Adrenaline hit, hot and sudden, seizing in my ribs in an iron grip. I twisted, shaking Silas’ shoulder. “Silas, wake up!”
He grunted, brows furrowing as he blinked up at me, groggy with sleep. “What’s wrong, sweetheart? Did you have a nightmare?”
“The fucking penthouse is burning down or some shit!”
That got him moving. He shot out of bed so fast he got tangled in the sheets, nearly face planting as he caught himself on the edge of the mattress. “Oh, fuck—oh, fuck.”
I was already scrambling at the sheets, heart slamming into my ribs.
But he stopped, dead still. His breath hitched. His brows shot up. “Wait. No.”
He bolted.
“What the hell?!” I shrieked, throwing myself after him.
My foot caught in the comforter, and before I could do a damn thing about it, I was eating carpet, my shoulder smacking against the floor. “Ow, shit!”
I scrambled up, stumbling forward, barely catching my balance as I chased after him, blood roaring in my ears. “Silas! What’s going on?!”
I ba rely caught sight of him before he disappeared down the hall, bare-ass naked, sprinting like an Olympian athlete with a death wish. If it had been anyone else, I’d have caught the ick and fled.
“Fucking slow down, you lanky asshole!” I wheezed.
By the time I reached his office, heaving, covered in a sheen of panic sweat, he was already inside, eyes locked onto something on his desk.
That beeping—that goddamn, ear-piercing, migraine-inducing beeping—was coming from inside the room.
“Why the hell is it so loud?!”
“So it’d wake me up!” he snapped, fingers flying over his laptop keyboard.
I gawked at him, chest rising and falling like I’d just fought for my life. “Thanks for that, asshole!”
But he wasn’t listening. He was too focused, whole body coiled, locked, brimming with energy.
“Gotta go.” He spun on his heel and ran.
“What?!” I barely had time to react before he was out the door.
I stumbled forward, eyes catching on the laptop screen. The words glared back at me like a death sentence.
MATCH 98.7% PROBABILITY.
SUBJECT CONFIRMED.
CLARK ELIAS THORN.
Ohhh, fuck.
I went after him, feet slamming against the floor. “I’m coming!”
He whipped around so fast I almost crashed into him. His chest heaved, curls wild, eyes dark with warning. “You’re not.”
“I absolutely am.”
“No. You’re staying here.”
“I don’t fucking think so!”
“Lilith—”
“Nope. You are not leaving me behind. This is just as much mine as it is yours.”
His jaw ticked, fists clenched, looking like he was having a full-blown mental breakdown trying to decide whether to fight me on this or not. Like I was giving him a goddamn choice.
I tilted my chin up, staring him down, even though he must’ve had a solid eight inches on me and the upper hand in literally every way possible. I didn’t give a shit. I was daring him to tell me no again.
A muscle jumped in his jaw. “Fine. Get dressed. We’re leaving in two minutes.”
I smirked. “One.”
We turned back toward the bedroom, clothes flying, buttons snapping, zippers yanked. We pulled on our boots, barely lacing them properly in the rush. Silas snatched his keys from the dresser, spinning them around his fingers like this wasn’t the most insane, adrenaline-fuelled shit we’d ever done.
I grabbed my jacket, shoving my arms through the sleeves as we flew toward the elevator.
The second the doors slid open, we were inside. He hit the button for the garage, and we went down.
This was it.
“There,” Silas said, pointing.
I squinted into the dark, craning my neck as my eyes adjusted. The water was black glass, and my stomach twisted as I scanned along the dark, slippery docks.
Sleek shadows lined the edges—yachts, all lined up like sleeping beasts.
Then I saw it.
Tucked away at the far end, shoved into a corner like a forgotten afterthought, was a yacht that looked like it had seen better days. Much better decades , actually.
The once-white paint was dull and weathered, the letters of ‘ Invictus’ peeling off like sunburnt skin.
Streaks of grime trailed down the sides of the hull, and a few stray buoys bobbed lazily around it, their ropes frayed and slack.
It looked more like a forgotten relic than a place someone could be living.
But he was here.
1.23a.m. That’s when he’d slipped up.
After all of Silas’ scouring, searching, and waiting for Clark to make a mistake—he finally had.
Less than twenty-four hours after Orion had given us access to the private camera feeds, a yacht that had docked at the marina earlier that day handed us exactly what we needed.
Its onboard security camera had caught him—grainy and shadowed under the dim dock lights. But unmistakably him.
We had no idea how. No idea why.
Silas had spent the first forty minutes of the drive talking me through how to scour the marina records to find him, to find out how he’d managed to get onto a yacht and how long he’d been there—a task that had almost ended in an argument.
I’d been tired, strung out on adrenaline and panic, and Silas? Well, he had the patience of a fucking viper when he was stressed.
“Just filter it like this,” he’d said, tapping at the screen from the driver’s seat.
“ I’m li terally doing that!”
“You literally aren’t!”
Now, sitting in the car at the docks, staring at the run down, bobbing mass of ‘ Invictus,’ I wished I’d fought harder. Wished I could rewind to that car ride and stay locked in a dumb fight about databases and filtering tools, instead of standing here, facing this.
Because he was right there.
No records. No aliases. No paper trail.
The only explanation?
Clark was squatting, and had maybe managed to scrape together a half decent disguise to fend off the marina’s public CCTV.
Which, quite frankly, was offensive.
Because he wasn’t smart. He wasn’t careful. He wasn’t some criminal mastermind. He was just a pathetic, narcissistic asshole who had gotten lucky for way too long.
My adrenaline had burned off, leaving a sickly, twisting nausea in its place. My skin was too tight, my stomach hollowed out. I wanted to puke. To rip my own soul out and launch it into the void.
But I trusted Silas.
Whatever came next—whatever we were about to do—he had this. It was locked down, and we were going to be fine.
“So what’s the plan?” I asked, still staring at the yacht.
“I don’t know.”
I turned to him so fast it’s a miracle I didn’t snap my neck. “You don’t know?”
“No,” he sighed, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “I got too caught up. Didn’t think that far ahead.”
Blood roaring in my ears as I stared. There was no way I’d just heard that right.
“All this time,” I said slowly. “ All this fucking time, and you didn’t even know what you were going to do?”
“I’m figuring it out.”
Oh. Oh. That was it. That was the moment my soul left my body.
I laughed. Not a normal laugh. A deranged, borderline hysterical laugh, because of course. Of course we were here, about to storm a yacht in the dead of night with zero plan. “You cannot be for real right now.”
“I’m figuring it out.” He repeated, sharper this time before reaching into the back seat, rummaging for something. I frowned as he pulled back, something bunched in his fists.
And then, he was moving.
Oh, God.
His scarf.
His fucking scarf.
My pulse slammed against my ribs as he wrapped it around the lower half of his face, tugged his hood up, and drowned himself in shadow. The familiar sight sent a ripple of something strange through me—something sharp, unexpected.
He turned to me, eyes burning. In his hands, another scarf.
I stared at it, then back at him. “Are you serious?”
He nodded.
Careful fingers brushed my skin as he wrapped the fabric around my face, securing it like it was second nature, like it belonged there.
My breath caught in my throat.
It was stupid, really. Just a scarf. A thin piece of material. But as he pulled my hood up, shielding me—something deep and raw twisted in my chest.
The first time I’d seen the stupid asshole, he’d yanked me into him in the middle of the sidewalk, wearing that damn scarf. To save me from being hit by an e-bike. It felt strange, weighing heavy like a ghost of something that triggered the start of this.
Pressure built behind my eyes, hot and tight, making my vision turn glassy.
“What’s wrong, sweetheart?” he asked, tilting his head slightly.
I shook my head. “Nothing. I’m just… allergic to the material or something.”
He didn’t push. Didn’t need to. He just leaned in and pressed his forehead to mine, the fabric of both scarves brushing together as he exhaled. “Come on.”
I nodded, swallowing past the lump in my throat, and slipped out of the car as quietly as I could.
The night air was sharp against my skin, the scent of salt and damp wood thick in my lungs as he reached for me, fingers wrapping around mine. I squeezed back, grounding myself in his touch as we moved, keeping low, keeping quiet.
The dock stretched out, empty save for a few rusted-out lamps casting weak, sickly pools of light onto the decking. We stuck to the shadows, weaving between stacks of crates and old equipment.
His hand slipped from mine.
I turned, heart skipping a beat, and— what the fuck— he was already disappearing into the dark like some kind of cryptid.
Ice kicked into my ribs. I’d never done this before. I was not a sneaky person. I was loud and clumsy and— Jesus Chris t, where the hell had he gone?
Before I could make some dumb decision like calling his name, a strong hand shot out of the dark, grabbing my wrist, yanking me into the shadows with him.
I barely managed to bite back a yelp. “Warn me next time!” I whisper-hissed.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered back, settling me against the side of a storage container, his breath warm against my temple as he stooped his head to duck down.
I sucked in a deep, steadying breath, my head pressing against the cold metal.
Was this what i t felt like for him back then?
In the dark. Moving like a ghost, like some kind of sexy, morally-grey secret agent?
Stalking through the night, tracking his target, heart pounding, brain locked onto the mission.
The control. The focus. The rush of blood beneath my skin, the way every noise was sharper, the way I was hyper aware of every movement.
I got it now.
At least, I kind of got it.
Silas had stalked me. And I was obviously an irresistibly sexy, alluring bookseller—one he’d wanted to shower in pastries and stolen literary quotes. So, yeah. I kind of got why the thrill had been just that little bit sweeter.
Clark was… well, not that. Just a straight up, irredeemable cunt who I wanted to shower in gasoline and set on fire.
Silas disappeared again. Fucking hell.
A few moments later, he reemerged, a rusty wrench in one hand, a crowbar in the other.
I squinted at him as I took the wrench. “Really?” I whispered. “That’s the big plan? We’re gonna Home Depot the guy to death?”
He shot me a look. “You got a better idea?”
I pursed my lips shut under the scarf and mimed zipping my lips. “Nope. Proceed with Home Improvement murder.”
His eyes glinted, something sharp and unreadable flickering beneath the moonlight.
God, I loved his face.
But damn, I missed when all I got was those beautiful, dark brown eyes—when I had to guess what the rest of him looked like, when every little glance or flicker of movement in them was a puzzle I had to solve.
No. Focus.
The carcass of a yacht loomed just ahead. Silas was scanning, taking in every inch, eyes moving like clockwork.
The dim glow from the cabin window flickered against the dark. A shadow moved inside.
I sucked in a sharp breath, my nails digging into my palm.
Silas stilled, then his hand closed around mine, grounding me in the warmth of his skin. He didn’t say anything, but I felt his question in the squeeze of his fingers.
Was I ready for this?
No. Absolutely not.
But I nodded anyway.
His gaze lingered a second longer before he turned and started to climb.
I swallowed hard and followed, placing each step carefully, gripping the cold metal rungs like they might vanish beneath me. The yacht rocked slightly under our weight, the water lapping gently against its sides, and when we reached the top, I crouched low, pressing myself against the damp railing.
Stay low. Keep quiet.
Silas moved ahead of me, his body a shadow against the moonlight, creeping across the deck. He paused, scanning again.
There.
Right across the window.
A full silhouette. A man. Crossing the space.
A sharp shock of adrenaline surged through me, my body locking up, every nerve ending screaming at me to run.
Not now. Not now. Not now.
I gritted my teeth and forced myself to breathe.
Silas crept toward the cabin door, testing the handle gently.
Locked.
My stomach churned.
He turned to me. Maybe he was going to suggest another plan. Some smarter, quieter way to do this.
But his gaze flicked back to the door, fingers twitching at his side, knuckles flexing, whole body coiled like a live wire.
He wasn’t waiting.
The crack of impact split through the night as his shoulder slammed into the door, the old wood groaning, splintering, shuddering beneath the force. A second hit, then a third—and then the door gave way, bursting open with a deafening crash.
I flinched, pulse slamming against my skull, panic clawing up my throat.
I wasn’t hesitating. I surged forward—stupid, rusty-ass wrench raised as I stumbled through the wrecked doorway.