CHAPTER 11
A FEAST OF ASHES
POV: IVY
The nightgown is a whisper of silk.
It lies on the velvet chaise lounge where Silas left it, a puddle of pale, ghostly silver. I stare at it, my heart thudding a frantic rhythm against my ribs. It’s beautiful, objectively. Delicate lace trims the bodice, and the straps are barely threads.
But it’s not a garment. It’s a uniform.
It’s the livery of a prisoner.
I look at the door to the bathroom. I can hear the faint sound of water running in the sink, then silence. Silas is waiting. He’s listening. He’s picturing me standing here, weighing my dignity against my survival.
Thwack. Thwack.
The sound of the leather belt hitting his palm echoes in my memory, sharp and visceral.
I am not brave. I realized that today when I saw the red roses and wanted to hide in his arms. I am not a warrior. I am just a girl who wants to wake up tomorrow without bruises.
With shaking fingers, I strip off the cashmere leggings and the oversized sweater—the only armor I had left. The cold air of the estate bites at my skin, raising gooseflesh. I pick up the silver slip.
It slides over my body like cool water. It fits perfectly, of course. It clings to my breasts, skims my waist, and ends mid-thigh. It leaves nothing to the imagination. The fabric is so thin I can see the outline of my nipples hardening in the chill.
I hug my arms around myself, feeling exposed. Vulnerable.
The bathroom door opens.
Silas steps out.
He has shed the suit jacket and the tie. His white dress shirt is unbuttoned at the collar, revealing the hollow of his throat and a hint of dark chest hair. He has rolled the sleeves up to his elbows, exposing thick forearms corded with muscle and veins.
He looks domestic. He looks lethal.
His eyes sweep over me, dark and heavy, landing on the lace bodice. A muscle feathers in his jaw.
"Perfect," he murmurs. The word sounds like a caress and a threat all at once.
He walks toward me. I hold my breath, bracing myself. Is he going to touch me? Is he going to take me right here, before dinner?
But he stops a foot away. He reaches out and simply adjusts the strap on my shoulder, his knuckles grazing my collarbone. The heat of his skin is a shock against mine.
"You look like moonlight," he says softly. "Dangerous. Ethereal."
He offers me his arm.
"Shall we?"
I look at his arm. The thick wrist. The large hand that could crush my windpipe or make me scream with pleasure.
I take it.
We walk out of the room, leaving the safety of the locked door behind. The hallway is dimly lit by sconces that look like medieval torches. The portraits on the walls seem to sneer at me as we pass—generation after generation of Vane men, all with the same cruel eyes.
We descend the grand staircase. The house is silent, save for the rhythmic click-clack of Silas’s dress shoes and the soft pad of my bare feet on the marble.
"Does anyone else live here?" I ask, my voice small in the cavernous space.
"Just the staff," Silas answers. "Marta. The chef. The groundskeeper. And the guards, of course. But they stay on the perimeter. Inside these walls... it’s just us."
We reach the dining room.
It’s a massive hall, dominated by a table long enough to seat twenty people. A fireplace roars at one end, casting long, dancing shadows against the dark wood paneling. Above the fireplace hangs a massive oil painting of a storm at sea—violent, chaotic, beautiful.
The table is set for two.
Silver candelabras flicker, dripping wax onto the pristine white tablecloth. Crystal glasses sparkle in the firelight.
Silas leads me to the table. He pulls out a heavy, high-backed chair.
It’s on the side of the table.
He walks to the head of the table and sits down. He is close enough to touch, but far enough to impose a sense of formality.
Marta materializes from the shadows of the kitchen entrance. She moves silently, like a ghost in a housekeeper’s uniform. She places a platter in the center of the table.
Roast beef. Rare. Bloody. Surrounded by roasted root vegetables that glisten with oil.
"Thank you, Marta," Silas says. "Leave the wine. We will serve ourselves."
"Yes, sir." Marta nods to him, then to me. "Enjoy your meal, Mrs. Vane."
She disappears.
Silas picks up the carving knife and fork. The metal scrapes softly. He slices the meat with surgical precision. Red juice runs onto the platter.
He serves a generous portion onto a plate and places it in front of me. Then he pours a glass of deep red wine.
"Eat," he commands.
I look at the meat. My stomach churns. I’m starving, but the metallic smell of the blood reminds me of the roses. It reminds me of the violence that brought me here.
"I’m not hungry," I lie.
Silas pauses, his wine glass halfway to his lips. He lowers it slowly.
"We talked about this, Ivy," he says, his voice deceptively mild. "Lying is a bad habit. I can hear your stomach growling from here."
"I don't eat meat," I try. A desperate fabrication.
"You had a cheeseburger for lunch three days ago," he counters instantly. "From that greasy spoon on 4th Avenue. You ate the whole thing and licked the grease off your fingers."
My face burns. Of course he knows.
"I don't want it tonight," I say, pushing the plate away an inch. "I want to go home."
"You are home."
He cuts a piece of meat on his own plate, chews it slowly, swallows. His eyes never leave mine.
"Tell me about your mother," he says suddenly.
The question hits me like a physical blow. I freeze.
"What?"
"Your mother," he repeats. "Eleanor. She left when you were twelve. Walked out on a Tuesday afternoon while you were at school. Didn't leave a note."
I grip the edge of the table, my knuckles turning white. "Stop it."
"Why did she leave, Ivy?"
"Because of him," I whisper, the anger bubbling up, overriding the fear. "Because of my father. He drank. He gambled away her inheritance. He made her life a living hell."
"And she left you behind in that hell," Silas observes. "She saved herself and left her daughter to the wolves."
"She didn't have a choice!" I snap. "She tried to take me. He wouldn't let her."
"Did she?" Silas tilts his head, studying me like a specimen under a microscope. "Or is that the story you tell yourself to sleep at night? My reports say she moved to Chicago. She remarried. She has two sons now. She never petitioned for custody. She never even called."
"Shut up!" I scream, standing up. The chair scrapes loudly against the floor. "You don't know anything! You have files? You have reports? That’s not a life! That’s paper!"
I’m shaking. Tears are stinging my eyes. That wound—the abandonment—is the deepest one I have. He just stuck his finger right into it and twisted.
Silas looks at me calm, unbothered by my outburst.
"Sit down, Ivy."
"No."
"Sit. Down." The command cracks like a whip.
"I’m not hungry," I say, backing away. "I’m going to my room."
"You don't have a room," he says. "You have our room. And you don't have permission to leave this table."
He stands up.
He moves with that terrifying grace, rounding the corner of the table. I take another step back, but I bump into the sideboard. I’m trapped.
Silas stops in front of me. He towers over me, blocking out the firelight, casting me in his shadow.
"You’re defiant tonight," he murmurs. He reaches out and wraps his hand around my throat. Not choking me, just holding. Claiming. "I like it. But defiance has consequences."
"Are you going to hit me?" I challenge, lifting my chin. "Go ahead. Be the monster everyone thinks you are."
His eyes darken. His thumb strokes the pulse point in my neck, feeling the frantic beat of my heart.
"I told you, little bird. I don't break my toys."
He releases my throat and grabs my waist. He lifts me effortlessly, as if I weigh nothing.
"Silas!"
He sits down on his chair—the high-backed chair at the head of the table—and pulls me down with him.
He settles me on his lap.
I struggle, trying to push off his chest, but his arm clamps around my waist like an iron band, pinning me to his hard thighs. I’m sitting sideways, my legs draped over the armrest, my silk nightgown riding up to my hips.
"Let me go," I hiss.
"No."
He reaches for the plate—my plate. He picks up the fork and stabs a piece of the bloody roast beef.
"You need protein," he says. "You’re too thin. I can feel every vertebrae in your spine."
He brings the fork to my lips.
"Eat."
I clamp my mouth shut, glaring at him.
Silas sighs. "Don't make this difficult, Ivy. You can eat it willingly, or I can hold your nose until you open your mouth to breathe. Either way, you are swallowing this."
I look at his eyes. He means it. He will force-feed me like a goose if he has to. And the humiliation of that... the sheer, infantile helplessness of it... is too much.
I open my mouth.
He slides the fork in. The meat is tender, rich, savory. I chew quickly and swallow, hating how good it tastes. Hating that he is providing for me.
"Good girl," he praises, his voice dropping to a low purr.
He cuts another piece.
"Why are you doing this?" I ask, my voice trembling as he feeds me again. "Why the questions about my mother? Why the mind games?"
"Because I need to know where the cracks are," he says simply. "I need to know what broke you, so I can be the one to put you back together. Only... I’ll put you back together differently. Stronger. Mine."
He feeds me a roasted carrot. Then a potato.
I eat. I eat because I’m starving. I eat because I’m scared. I eat because sitting on his lap, surrounded by his scent, feeling the heat of his body seeping into mine, is intoxicating in a way I can't admit.
Then, his hand moves.
The hand that isn't holding the fork—the large, warm hand resting on my waist—slides down.
It smooths over the silk of my nightgown, tracing the curve of my hip. Then it slides under the hem.
I freeze, a piece of meat halfway down my throat. I choke, coughing.
Silas pats my back gently, but his other hand doesn't stop. It moves up my bare thigh. His skin is rough, calloused, creating a friction that sends sparks shooting through my nerves.
"Keep eating," he orders softly.
He offers me another bite.
"Silas, don't," I whisper. "Marta... Marta could come in."
"Marta knows better," he says. "And if she comes in? Let her see. You are my wife. There is no shame in a husband touching his wife."
His fingers climb higher. Inner thigh. Soft, sensitive skin.
My breath hitches. My legs instinctively try to close, but the position makes it impossible. I am splayed open for him.
He reaches the apex of my thighs. I’m not wearing panties. The nightgown was all he gave me.
He finds me.
He groans low in his throat. "So wet. Always so wet for me, even when you’re fighting."
"It’s not... it’s just..."
"Biology?" He mocks my earlier excuse. "Call it what you want. I call it submission."
He begins to stroke me. Not gentle circles this time, but a firm, possessive rhythm. He finds my clit and claims it.
"Eat," he says again, holding the fork to my lips.
I shake my head, squeezing my eyes shut. "I can't."
"Yes, you can. Chew. Swallow. Come for me."
He pushes the fork against my lips.
I open my mouth. I take the food.
The sensation is overwhelming. The taste of the rich food on my tongue, the heat of the fire on my back, and his fingers working magic between my legs. It’s sensory overload. It’s depraved.
"That’s it," he whispers against my ear, biting the lobe. "Be a good girl. Take what I give you."
He increases the pressure.
A whimper escapes my throat. I drop the fork (when did I take it?). I clutch his shirt, burying my face in his neck to stifle the sounds.
"Don't hide," he growls. "Let me hear you."
The door to the kitchen swings open.
I freeze. My entire body goes rigid.
Marta walks in, carrying a tray with a silver coffee pot.
"Dessert, sir?" she asks, her voice perfectly even.
She sees us. She has to. She sees me sitting on his lap, my face buried in his neck, my gown hiked up. She can probably see the movement of his arm.
Shame, hot and bright, explodes in my chest.
"Silas, stop," I beg in a tiny whisper.
He doesn't stop. He speeds up.
"Leave it on the sideboard, Marta," Silas says calmly, his voice steady, betraying nothing. "That will be all for tonight."
"Very good, sir."
Marta sets the tray down. The china clinks. She walks back to the door.
Every second she is in the room feels like an hour. Silas’s fingers are relentless. He is forcing me to the edge right in front of her.
The door swings shut.
"She’s gone," Silas says. "Now let go."
He twists his hand, hitting that spot that makes my toes curl.
I can't hold it back. The fear, the shame, the arousal—it all collides in a massive wave of release.
I cry out, a sharp, broken sound that echoes in the large room. My body convulses in his arms, trembling violently. I cling to him because I have no choice. If he let go, I would fall.
He holds me through it, his hand slowing but not stopping, milking the last of the pleasure from me.
When I finally settle, limp and gasping, he withdraws his hand.
He wipes his fingers on the white linen napkin. The gesture is so casual, so domestic, it makes me want to scream.
He picks up the wine glass and holds it to my lips.
"Drink."
I take a sip. The wine is heavy, oaky. It grounds me.
Silas brushes the hair back from my damp forehead. He looks satisfied. Smug.
"You see?" he says softly. "Your mother may have left you, Ivy. But I never will. I’m the only one who knows how to take care of you."
He stands up, lifting me with him.
"Now," he says, carrying me toward the stairs. "You’ve had your dinner. It’s time for bed."
I rest my head against his shoulder, too exhausted to fight.
He’s right. My mother left. My father sold me.
Silas is the monster in the dark. But tonight, in this terrifying, twisted way... he fed me.
And God help me, I’m still hungry.