CHAPTER 4
THE CLEANSING
POV: SILAS
The elevator ascends in silence.
It’s a private lift, accessible only by my biometric scan, bypassing the fifty floors of corporate drones and residential tenants below. We are rising above the filth of the city, leaving the grime and the noise and the desperation on the pavement where it belongs.
Ivy is shivering against my chest.
She hasn’t spoken since I put her in the car.
She hasn’t fought, either. The initial burst of adrenaline that fueled her attempt to stab me seems to have burned itself out, leaving behind a hollow, trembling shock.
She feels fragile in my arms, bird-boned and too thin.
I can feel the sharpness of her shoulder blade digging into my bicep through her thin cotton t-shirt.
It angers me.
Not her weakness—I like her weakness. Her weakness creates space for my strength.
What angers me is the cause of it. I think of Marcus Ross, crying in the basement of The Altar, and I regret giving him a quick death.
I should have let the Russians have him.
I should have kept him alive long enough to starve him the way he starved her.
The elevator doors slide open with a soft, melodic chime.
My penthouse spans the entire top floor of the Vane Tower. It is a fortress of glass, steel, and black marble. Minimalist. Cold. Impenetrable. The floor-to-ceiling windows offer a panoramic view of Manhattan, a glittering ocean of lights that I own a significant portion of.
I step out into the foyer. The air here is climate-controlled, filtered, scented faintly with white tea and ozone. It smells nothing like the boiled cabbage and mildew of her building.
"Put me down," Ivy whispers. Her voice is a rasp, dry and brittle.
I ignore her. I walk past the sprawling living room, past the kitchen that has never been used, and head straight for the Master Suite.
"I said put me down!" She struggles weakly, pushing against my chest.
"We’re almost there," I say, my voice calm. I don’t tighten my grip; I don’t have to. She has nowhere to go.
I kick open the double doors to my bedroom. It’s a cavernous space, dominated by a king-sized bed with black silk sheets. But I don’t stop there. I carry her into the en-suite bathroom.
This room is my sanctuary. Walls of dark slate, a heated floor, and a massive freestanding tub carved from a single block of volcanic stone. It sits in the center of the room like a sacrificial altar.
I finally set her down.
Her bare feet hit the warm stone tiles. She sways, grabbing the edge of the marble vanity for support. She looks around wildly, her eyes darting from the rainfall shower to the tub, then to the mirror that spans the entire wall.
She looks like a wreck. Her hair is tangled, her eyes are rimmed with red, and her clothes—faded jeans and a t-shirt with a hole in the collar—look offensive in this space. She is covered in the dust of her old life. The smell of the subway, the cheap detergent, the fear.
I need to wash it off.
I walk over to the tub and turn the tap. Water cascades into the stone basin, steaming hot. I add a capful of oil—rose and sandalwood. The scent blooms instantly, rich and intoxicating, overpowering the stale air of the city that clings to her.
"What are you doing?" she asks, backing away until her hips hit the vanity. She’s clutching her arms across her chest, defensive.
"The water needs to fill," I say, checking the temperature with my hand. Perfect. Scalding enough to burn away the past, but not enough to damage the skin.
I turn to face her. I take off my overcoat and drape it over the towel rack. Then I remove my suit jacket, folding it neatly. I undo my cufflinks, placing them on the counter, and roll up the sleeves of my white dress shirt to the elbows.
My forearms are vascular, the muscles shifting as I flex my hands. I see her eyes track the movement. She’s terrified, but she’s looking. She’s always looking.
"Take off your clothes," I command.
The air leaves the room.
Ivy stares at me, her mouth falling open slightly. "What?"
"Your clothes," I repeat, stepping closer. "Take them off. They’re filthy. I won't have them in my bed."
"I’m not... I’m not getting naked in front of you," she stammers, her face flushing a deep, mottled crimson. "You’re insane. You can't just kidnap me and expect me to—"
"I don't expect," I interrupt softly. "I take."
I stop two feet in front of her. I tower over her. I can see the pulse hammering in her neck, right beneath the diamonds I gave her. The birdcage pendant rests in the hollow of her throat, rising and falling with her frantic breathing.
"You have two choices, Ivy," I say, my voice low and reasonable, as if I’m explaining a simple business transaction. "You strip, get in the tub, and wash off the stench of that hovel you lived in. Or I strip you myself. And if I have to do it..."
I let the threat hang there. I let my eyes drift down her body, lingering on the waistband of her jeans, imagining the sound of the denim tearing.
"...I won't be as gentle as you might like."
She swallows hard. I see the calculation in her eyes. She’s smart. She knows she can't fight me. She knows I’m stronger, faster, and utterly devoid of the morals she’s used to hiding behind.
"Turn around," she whispers.
"No."
"Please," she begs, tears welling up again. "Don't look at me."
"I’ve already seen you," I lie. I haven't seen her naked. Not really. The cameras in her apartment didn't cover the bathroom. I’ve seen outlines. I’ve seen hints. But I haven't seen her.
"I want to see what I bought," I say cruelly.
It’s the wrong thing to say—or the right thing, depending on the objective. It breaks her spirit just enough. She squeezes her eyes shut, a tear tracking through the grime on her cheek.
With trembling hands, she reaches for the hem of her t-shirt.
I watch, unblinking.
She pulls the shirt over her head and drops it to the floor.
She’s wearing a mismatched bra. Grey cotton, frayed at the strap. It looks old. It looks like poverty. But the skin beneath it...
My breath hitches in my chest.
She is luminous. Pale, creamy skin that looks like it’s never seen the sun. But she is too thin. I can count her ribs. There’s a bruise on her hip—yellow and fading—likely from bumping into furniture in that cramped apartment.
She unbuttons her jeans. The zipper hisses. She shimmies them down, stepping out of them and kicking them aside. She’s left in the grey bra and simple white panties.
"Everything," I say.
She creates a small, choked sound, but she reaches back and unclasps the bra. It falls. Her breasts are small, perfect, the nipples hardened into tight peaks from the cold and the fear.
She hooks her thumbs into her panties and pushes them down.
When she steps out of them, she tries to cover herself with her hands, curling inward, trying to disappear.
"Get in the water," I order, my voice rougher than I intended. My cock is straining against my trousers, a painful, throbbing demand. I want to touch her. I want to mark her. But not yet.
She scrambles into the tub, sinking into the steaming water until it laps at her chin. The water turns slightly cloudy, the oil swirling around her. She pulls her knees to her chest, hiding her body from me.
I walk to the edge of the tub and pick up the sponge and the bar of French milled soap.
"Sit up," I say.
"I can do it myself," she snaps, though her teeth are chattering.
"I didn't ask if you could." I kneel beside the tub, ignoring the dampness seeping into my dress trousers. "Sit up, Ivy. Don't make me drag you up."
She glares at me—a spark of fire that I want to fan into an inferno—but she obeys. She unfurls her legs and sits up. The water lowers to her waist, exposing her torso.
I lather the sponge. The smell of roses fills the small space between us.
I reach out and touch the sponge to her shoulder.
She flinches violently, water sloshing over the side of the tub.
"Easy," I murmur. "I’m not going to hurt you."
"You already have," she whispers.
I ignore that. I begin to scrub.
I start at her neck, working around the diamond choker. I don't take it off. I wash around it. It stays.
I move to her shoulders, scrubbing away the invisible weight of her father’s debts. I wash her arms, her elbows, her wrists. My movements are methodical, heavy. I am claiming every inch of skin I touch.
I move the sponge over her chest. She holds her breath. I wash her breasts, my hand grazing the sensitive skin. She trembles, her nipples reacting instantly to the friction. I pretend not to notice, but my eyes devour the sight.
"Lift your arms," I say.
She obeys like a doll. I wash her sides, tracing the line of her ribs. I frown at the prominence of the bones.
"I’m going to fatten you up," I mutter, more to myself than her. "You feel like you’re made of glass."
"I’m not hungry," she says sullenly.
"You will be."
I drop the sponge into the water and pick up the shampoo. "Lean back."
She hesitates, then leans her head back against the rim of the stone tub. Her hair floats in the water like a dark halo.
I pour warm water over her hair, cupping the back of her head with my large hand. Her skull feels delicate in my grip. One squeeze, and I could crush her. But I am infinitely gentle.
I massage the shampoo into her scalp. My fingers dig in, deep and slow. I watch her face. Her eyes are closed now. The tension is slowly bleeding out of her shoulders. The heat of the water and the rhythm of my hands are lulling her into a trance.
This is intimacy. This is what she confessed to wanting. To be taken care of. To have the choice removed.
"Does it feel good?" I ask, my voice a low rumble.
Her eyes flutter open. They are hazy, confused. For a second, she forgets to hate me.
"Yes," she whispers.
The single word hits me like a drug.
I rinse her hair, the water running clear.
"Stand up."
The spell breaks. She stiffens. "Silas..."
It’s the first time she’s used my name. It sounds right on her tongue.
"Stand up, Ivy."
She stands. Water cascades off her body, glistening on her skin. She is a goddess rising from the depths. I look at her—really look at her. The curve of her hips. The dark triangle between her legs. The way her thighs tremble.
I grab a plush white towel from the warmer and stand up. I wrap it around her, pulling her against me.
I don't dry her immediately. I just hold her. My arms wrap around the towel, trapping her against my body. My wet shirt clings to my chest, soaking through to my skin, but I don't care.
She rests her forehead against my chest. She’s exhausted. The adrenaline crash is hitting her hard.
"Why me?" she asks, her voice muffled against my shirt. " out of all the people in the city... why me?"
I rest my chin on top of her wet head.
"Because you were the only one looking back," I say.
I dry her off, rubbing the towel briskly over her arms and legs. Then I lead her into the bedroom.
I walk to the walk-in closet—a room larger than her entire apartment—and open a drawer. I pull out a pair of silk pajamas. Midnight blue.
I toss them onto the bed.
"Put these on."
She picks them up, rubbing the fabric between her fingers. She looks at the tag. It’s Italian.
She puts them on. The top buttons up the front. The pants have a drawstring.
She freezes when she ties the pants.
"They fit," she says, her voice hollow.
"Of course they fit."
She looks up at me, horror dawning in her eyes again. "How? How do you know my size? I never told anyone... I buy everything secondhand..."
"I have your medical records," I say, unbuttoning my wet cuffs. "I know your height, your weight, your blood type. I know you’re allergic to penicillin. I know you broke your left wrist when you were seven falling off a swing set."
I walk toward her, backing her up until her legs hit the edge of the mattress.
"I know that you prefer tampons to pads, but you buy the cheap generic brand that leaks. I bought you the organic cotton ones. They’re in the bathroom cabinet."
Her face drains of color. She looks like she’s going to be sick.
"That’s... that’s sick," she whispers. "You’re a monster."
"I’m thorough," I correct her.
I push her shoulders gently. She collapses onto the bed, too weak to resist.
I pull the duvet up over her, tucking her in. I’m tucking her in like a child, after kidnapping her and stripping her naked. The dichotomy fuels the darkness in my soul.
"Sleep, Ivy," I say. "You have a big day tomorrow."
"What happens tomorrow?" she asks, clutching the duvet to her chin.
"Tomorrow we establish the rules."
I walk to the door.
"Silas?"
I stop, my hand on the handle. I look back. She looks tiny in the massive bed, swallowed by the black silk.
"Is the door locked?" she asks.
I look at the keypad on the wall. The red light is blinking.
"From the outside," I say. "You can't get out, Ivy. The elevators are coded to my prints. The stairs are alarmed. The windows are reinforced glass."
"So I am a prisoner."
"You’re a guest who isn't allowed to leave," I say. "Get used to the view, little bird. This is your cage now."
I turn off the lights, plunging the room into darkness, save for the city lights glittering outside the glass walls.
"Goodnight."
I close the door. The magnetic lock engages with a heavy thud.
I stand in the hallway for a moment, listening. I wait for the scream. I wait for the sobbing.
But there is only silence.
She’s not crying. She’s adapting.
I smile, touching the wet spot on my shirt where her face had pressed against my heart.
Good girl.