Chapter 14 #3
I have no idea what that means exactly, only that he probably lingers in the gray more than I want to believe.
“You never said what your father did,” Silas says, leaning back.
I eye him. “You didn’t find that out?”
He gives me a sly smile. “I decided to respect your privacy.”
I suppress a smile. “My father was in import-export. The same as his father. Unlike his father, my father, Jack, invested wisely and was more interested in storing up treasures in heaven than here on earth.”
Silas adjusts his weight, the floorboards groaning. “And the Lord blessed him for it?”
I nod. “He did.”
“How long has the house been in your family?”
“My great-grandfather built it at the height of his prosperity. It was his wish that it stay in the family.”
“How’d your father feel about that?”
“Resigned, I suppose. He was the only son. I think the mansion embarrassed him. The only time he opened it up was when we threw parties for charities.”
Interest flickers across his face. “Do you still host events?”
I think back to the last one. “The last one was over six months ago.”
“How many people come through the house at one of these events?”
“I have no idea. A hundred? Maybe more if the weather is fine.”
His brow tightens into a hard line. “Please tell me you have security at these events.”
A little worm of anxiety tunnels into my newfound calm. “Well… Earl is there, and he usually brings his nephew.”
Silas’s breath escapes in a sharp rush as he runs a hand over his face. “Ava,” he mumbles into his palm, his frustration palpable.
Heat rushes through me at how foolish I must appear. “Next time I’ll hire professionals.”
He tugs his hand away from his face. “Next time I’ll choose the team personally.”
Next time. Does he know what he’s suggesting?
I don’t have the opportunity to ask him to elaborate. He gets up and stokes the fire, the flames jumping higher as he adjusts the logs. When he sits back down, the firelight flickers across his face, softening the hard lines.
"These charity events," he says after a moment, his voice lower, more intimate. "You run them yourself?"
"I have a committee. But yes, mostly I coordinate everything."
"Must meet a lot of people that way."
I glance at him, wondering where he's going with this. "I suppose. Donors, volunteers, community leaders."
"Ever meet anyone..." He pauses, seeming to choose his words with surgical care. “That was a good fit for you?”
Heat creeps up my neck, thick and insistent. "You mean romantically?"
He nods.
I shake my head. "Most of the men who attend those events are either married, twice my age, or only interested in tax deductions." I try for a light tone, but it comes out higher, more brittle than I intended.
He's quiet for a moment, the fire crackling between us. "It's a big house for one person."
The observation catches me off guard, hitting a tender spot. "I never expected not to be able to fill it the way my parents did. But then, I wouldn’t have time anyway."
"Sounds like you're making excuses."
I blink at him, my heart jumping. "Excuse me?"
"Your work gives you a valid reason to be busy. Not a reason to be alone."
I pull a face. "Says the man who spends his life living behind walls and encrypted emails," I gesture vaguely at him, the weight of his hidden life hanging between us.
His expression shifts, becoming more guarded, more distant. "I can't bring another person into my life. The work I do, the enemies I've made—it's too dangerous."
"Shouldn't that be their choice to make?"
"No." The word comes out flat. Final.
"Why not?"
"Because it would be selfish. Asking someone to live with that kind of risk, that kind of uncertainty—"
I interrupt him. “So you make that decision for them? You don’t even let them decide?”
“They’d be making an uninformed decision.”
“So inform them.”
“It’s not that simple.”
“Now who’s making excuses?”
When he carefully schools his features, the exasperation loosens my tongue.
"You think it’s your burden to carry, your responsibility, but you're putting yourself in the place of God," I interrupt, leaning closer. "Deciding for someone else what they can handle. What they're willing to sacrifice."
He's silent for a long moment, the air in the cabin humming with the electricity of the debate. Then, a faint, wry smile tugs at his mouth. "You seem to be giving me advice you aren't taking yourself. You shouldn't be alone either."
I can’t respond. I’m noticing too many things at the same time: how his eyes are fixed on mine, dark and searching; that my heart is racing against my ribs; that I’ve stopped breathing entirely.
I feel the exact moment he decides to close the distance. His hand comes up to cup my face, thumb brushing across my cheekbone, the contact burning.
“Lord help me, Ava.”
He presses his lips to mine.
Slower. Deliberate. Like he's memorizing the feel of it. His other hand slides to the small of my back, drawing me closer despite my injured ankle, anchoring me against the solid, immovable strength of his frame. I sink into it—into him.
My fingers curl into his shirt, then slide up to his shoulders, feeling the tension held there. He makes a low, guttural sound in his throat and deepens the kiss. This isn't fear or adrenaline. This is something else entirely. Something that makes my heart race for entirely different reasons.
His hand moves from my face to tangle in my hair, gentle but possessive. When he tilts my head back slightly, I let him, trusting him completely. Time blurs. All I know is the warmth of his mouth, the solid strength of him, the way he holds me like I'm something precious.
He pulls back slightly, his eyes searching mine in the dim, amber light.
"The power just cut out," he murmurs against my mouth.
I groan, the reality of the cabin pressing back in. "I hadn’t noticed."
His lips curl into a smile. "I need to go check on the generator."
He starts to pull away as my phone vibrates on the coffee table where he placed it earlier.
Buzz. Buzz. Buzz. The sound cuts through the quiet like a mechanical alarm. Notifications start flooding in—a relentless, stuttering vibration that rattles the wood of the table.
Silas reaches for the phone before I can, his entire body snapping into a state of unnatural, wire-taut rigidity.
The man who was kissing me seconds ago—the man whose warmth had felt like a refuge—is gone, erased and replaced by the soldier.
His jaw locks, the muscles working beneath his skin as he scans the screen, his focus so absolute it feels like he’s staring through the glass and into the person sending the messages.
A cold, hollow sensation begins to coil in my gut, replacing the residual heat of his touch. The police caught someone, I tell myself, trying to still my racing thoughts.
But the frantic, rhythmic chattering of the phone on the coffee table feels too much like a taunt. If they had him—if he’s truly in custody— how is he still reaching out?