CHAPTER 10
THE BLACKOUT ZONE
POV: SILAS
Rain lashes against the windshield of the armored SUV, a relentless, rhythmic assault that matches the thrum of rage vibrating beneath my skin.
I drive fast. Too fast for the slick, winding roads of Long Island, but I trust my hands. I trust the machine. The only thing I don't trust right now is the world outside this steel cage.
Beside me, Ivy is asleep.
Or maybe she’s passed out. Her head lolls against the cool glass of the passenger window, her body curled into a tight, defensive ball in the oversized leather seat.
She’s still wearing the cashmere leggings and the sweater I bought her—clothes that cost more than her father’s life is currently worth.
I glance at her. The passing streetlights cut across her face in strobes of orange and black, illuminating the tear tracks dried on her cheeks.
My grip tightens on the leather steering wheel until the knuckles turn white. The leather groans in protest.
Red roses.
The image of those flowers in my penthouse—my sanctuary—burns behind my retinas like a brand. Nikolai Sokolov didn't just send a threat; he violated my perimeter. He touched what is mine.
The courier who delivered them is currently in a warehouse in Queens, explaining his life choices to Luca. By the time I get the report, he will likely be unable to speak, but I will know who paid him, how much, and what time Nikolai wakes up in the morning.
I reach out with my right hand. I need to touch her.
It’s a compulsion I can’t stifle. Since the moment I saw her in that wedding dress, since the moment she signed the paper—even if her signature was already there—the tether between us has tightened. It’s no longer just obsession. It’s ownership.
My hand lands on her thigh.
She flinches in her sleep, a small, jerky movement, but she doesn't wake. She leans into the touch instinctively, seeking warmth.
Good.
I slide my hand higher, her thigh soft and yielding under the cashmere. I rest my palm there, feeling the steady heat of her skin. It grounds me. It quiets the noise in my head that screams for blood.
We pass the sign for the Hamptons. The houses get larger, the driveways longer, the gates more imposing. This is old money territory. Quiet money. The kind of money that buys silence.
The Vane Estate is at the very end of the point, isolated by three hundred acres of dense pine forest on one side and the churning Atlantic Ocean on the other. It is a fortress disguised as a mansion.
I slow the car as the iron gates loom out of the mist. They are twelve feet high, topped with spikes that look decorative but are razor-sharp.
The sensors read the chip in my car and the gates swing open silently.
I drive through. The gravel crunches under the tires, a sound like bones breaking.
The house rises from the darkness. It’s a gothic revival monstrosity of gray stone, turrets, and dark windows. It looks like it grew out of the cliffside. My grandfather built it to intimidate his enemies. I keep it to hide my secrets.
I bring the SUV to a halt in the circular driveway. The rain is coming down harder now, a deluge that washes away the sins of the city.
I kill the engine.
The silence that follows is heavy.
"Ivy," I say softly.
She stirs, blinking her eyes open. She looks disoriented. She looks around at the dark trees, the stone facade, the rain.
"Where are we?" she whispers, her voice thick with sleep.
"Home," I say.
I get out, opening an umbrella before the rain can touch my suit. I walk around to her side and pull the door open.
The cold ocean air hits us, sharp and salty. Ivy shivers, hugging herself.
"Come," I command, extending a hand.
She hesitates. She looks at the house, then at the dark woods surrounding us. She realizes, just as I intended, that running is not an option. There is nowhere to run to.
She takes my hand.
I pull her out of the car and tuck her under the umbrella, wrapping my arm around her waist to shield her from the wind. We walk up the stone steps to the massive double doors.
Before I can reach for my keys, the door opens.
Mrs. Halloway stands there.
She is a small woman in her sixties, with steel-gray hair pulled back in a severe bun and a uniform that is perfectly pressed. She has been running this house since I was a boy. She knows where the bodies are buried because she has cleaned the carpets afterward.
"Good evening, Mr. Vane," she says, her voice devoid of surprise. "Welcome back."
"Marta," I nod. "This is my wife."
Ivy stiffens against me.
Marta turns her gaze to Ivy. Her expression doesn't change. She offers a polite, terrifyingly normal smile.
"Mrs. Vane," she says, dipping her head. "A pleasure to finally meet you. Mr. Vane has been preparing for your arrival for quite some time. The master suite is ready."
"Preparing?" Ivy whispers, looking up at me. "How long?"
"Months," I answer simply.
I guide her inside. The foyer is cavernous, lit by a massive crystal chandelier that casts fractured light across the black and white marble floors. A dual staircase sweeps up to the second floor. It smells of beeswax, lemon oil, and old money.
"Dinner will be served in the dining room in thirty minutes," Marta says, closing the heavy front door behind us. The sound of the latch clicking into place echoes like a gunshot. "I have prepared a roast. I assumed Mrs. Vane would be hungry after the... excitement."
"Thank you, Marta," I say. "We'll go up first."
I steer Ivy toward the stairs. She walks mechanically, her eyes wide, taking in the portraits of my ancestors on the walls. Men with cruel eyes and sharp jaws. My legacy.
"She called me Mrs. Vane," Ivy murmurs as we climb. "Like it’s normal. Like you didn't just drag me here."
"To her, it is normal," I say. "Marta understands loyalty. She understands that you belong here."
We reach the landing. I lead her down the long, carpeted hallway to the double doors at the end.
This is my wing. The East Wing. It overlooks the ocean.
I push the doors open.
The room is vast. A four-poster bed made of dark mahogany dominates the space, draped in heavy velvet curtains. A fireplace crackles on the far wall. Floor-to-ceiling windows look out over the stormy sea, the waves crashing against the cliffs below in violent bursts of white foam.
Ivy walks into the room, drawn to the window. She presses her hand against the glass, looking out at the nothingness.
"It’s dark," she says. "There are no lights out there."
"No," I agree, closing the door and locking it. "We are the only light for miles."
I walk over to the bedside table and pick up a small, silver device. I toss it onto the bed.
"Your phone," I say.
Ivy turns around, her eyes lighting up with hope. She rushes to the bed and grabs it.
"You’re giving it back?"
"Go ahead," I say, leaning against the doorframe, crossing my arms. "Make a call."
She fumbles with the screen. She dials a number—probably Sarah again, or the police. She puts it to her ear.
She frowns. She pulls it away, looks at the screen, and dials again.
"It’s not connecting," she says, panic rising in her voice. "There’s no signal. Why is there no signal?"
"Look at the bars, Ivy."
"Zero bars. But... we’re in the Hamptons. There should be service."
"Not here," I say calmly. "The Estate is a dead zone. I have a jammer installed in the foundation. No cellular signals go in or out. No GPS. No Wi-Fi, unless it’s my hardline."
Her hand drops. The phone slips from her fingers and bounces on the duvet.
"So I can't call for help," she whispers.
"No one can hear you," I confirm. "You could scream until your throat bleeds, and the only things that would hear you are the seagulls and the waves."
I push off the doorframe and walk toward her.
"This is isolation, Ivy. True isolation. No social media. No news. No distractions."
I stop in front of her. I reach out and brush a lock of hair from her forehead.
"Just you. And me."
She trembles. "Why? Why do you need this?"
"Because out there," I gesture to the window, "the world is trying to tear you apart. The world is loud. It’s dangerous. Here... you are safe. Here, you can focus on what matters."
"And what matters?" she asks, her voice breaking.
"Us," I say. "Your duties as my wife."
"Duties?" She looks at the bed, then back at me, fear spiking in her eyes.
"Not just that," I say, though the hunger is there, coiled in my gut. "I want to know you, Ivy. I want to peel back every layer until there is nothing left but the truth. And I want you to know me."
"I know you," she spits out, a spark of defiance returning. "You’re a kidnapper. A murderer."
"I am your husband," I correct her. "And tonight, we celebrate our honeymoon."
I reach for my belt.
Ivy flinches, taking a step back. "Silas..."
"Relax," I say, undoing the buckle. "I’m not going to rape you. I told you. I have standards."
I pull the belt free. The leather slithers through the loops with a serpent's hiss. I fold it in my hand.
"But you need to understand the boundaries of your new world."
I walk past her to the bathroom.
"Get changed," I order over my shoulder. "There’s a nightgown laid out on the chaise. Put it on. We’re going down to dinner."
"And if I don't?" she challenges, her voice shaking.
I stop. I turn slowly. I tap the folded belt against my palm. Thwack. Thwack.
"Then we skip dinner," I say softly. "And we go straight to discipline."
Her eyes widen, fixing on the belt. She swallows hard. The fight drains out of her, replaced by the instinct to survive.
"I’ll change," she whispers.
"Good girl."
I walk into the bathroom and close the door, leaning my forehead against the cool wood.
My heart is racing. Not from anger anymore, but from the thrill.
She is trapped. Completely, utterly trapped. The ocean on one side, the forest on the other, and me in the middle.
There are no more interruptions. No more flowers from Russians. No more phone calls.
Just the storm outside.
And the storm inside.
I look at myself in the mirror. The monster stares back, grinning.
Let the honeymoon begin.