CHAPTER 12
COLD STEEL
POV: SILAS
I wake before the sun.
It’s a habit born of necessity and honed by paranoia. In my world, sleeping in means dying. You wake up, you check the perimeter, you check your weapons, and then—only then—do you allow yourself to exist.
But this morning, my routine is disrupted.
I don't check my phone first. I don't reach for the Glock on the nightstand.
I look at her.
Ivy is sprawled across the other side of the massive mahogany bed, tangled in the duvet.
She’s sleeping deeply, the kind of exhaustion that comes after a complete nervous system overload.
Her hair is a chaotic halo of caramel waves against the white pillowcase.
Her lips are slightly parted, her breath hitching softly every few seconds.
She looks peaceful.
It’s a lie, of course. Inside that pretty head, I know she’s probably running through that dark forest she mentioned, chasing shadows. But here, in the gray pre-dawn light of the Hamptons, she looks like she belongs to the bed. Like she belongs to me.
I reach out and trace the line of her shoulder with my fingertip, hovering just above the skin so I don't wake her.
Last night was a victory. A messy, depraved victory, but a win nonetheless.
She ate. She came. She slept. The trifecta of basic needs, all provided by my hand.
She hates me for it—I could see the loathing in her eyes as I carried her up the stairs—but hate is a passionate emotion.
Hate is close to love. Indifference is the only enemy I can't fight, and Ivy is anything but indifferent.
I slide out of bed, the cold hardwood floor a shock to my bare feet.
I dress in silence. Tactical cargo pants, combat boots, a black thermal henley that hugs my chest. This isn't the boardroom. The Estate requires a different uniform. Here, I am not the CEO. I am the warlord guarding the castle.
I grab my coffee from the machine in the hallway—Marta is always awake before me, silent and efficient—and head out to the terrace.
The storm has passed, leaving behind a sky the color of a fresh bruise. The ocean below churns, angry and gray, slamming against the cliffs with a rhythmic violence that soothes me.
I scan the tree line. The cameras are active. The motion sensors are green. The guards are at their posts.
But something feels... off.
It’s an instinct. A prickle at the base of my skull. It’s the same feeling I got before the Sokolovs tried to hit my shipment in Jersey last year. The air is too heavy. The seagulls are too quiet.
Nikolai knows where I live. He knows the Estate. He wouldn't be stupid enough to attack it directly—a frontal assault on this place would be suicide—but he’s a patient man. He’s a hunter.
I sip the black coffee, bitter and scalding.
I need to prepare her.
Keeping her in a gilded cage is fine for the city, but out here, nature is harsher. And if the walls fail—if I fail—she needs to be more than just a pretty ornament. She needs to be dangerous.
I finish the coffee and walk back inside.
Ivy is stirring. She stretches, a long, feline movement that pulls the sheet down, exposing the curve of her breast.
I watch her. I let myself look. I own this view.
Her eyes flutter open. She sees me standing at the foot of the bed, fully dressed, staring.
She freezes. The peace vanishes, replaced instantly by the guarded, fearful look of the prey.
"Good morning, Mrs. Vane," I say.
She pulls the sheet up to her chin. "You’re staring."
"I’m admiring my investment." I walk to the side of the bed. "Get up. Put on something warm. Pants. Boots."
"Why?" She eyes my combat boots. "Where are we going?"
"We’re going for a walk," I say. "I want to show you the boundaries of your world."
The air outside is crisp, smelling of salt spray and pine needles. It’s cold enough to see our breath, white puffs of dragon smoke dissipating in the wind.
Ivy walks beside me, hugging a thick wool coat I gave her. She looks small against the backdrop of the massive trees and the looming stone house. She’s looking around, searching for a gap in the fence, a weakness in the wall.
She won't find one.
"The fence is electrified," I say, answering her unspoken question. "Twelve feet high. Buried three feet underground. The current is enough to stop a bear. Or a determined wife."
She glares at me. "I wasn't looking for a way out."
"Liar."
We walk toward the cliffs. The property ends in a sheer drop to the jagged rocks below. There is no fence here. The fall is the barrier.
I stop at the edge, looking down at the churning water.
"Beautiful, isn't it?" I ask.
"It’s violent," she corrects.
"Violence has its own beauty." I turn to her. The wind whips her hair across her face. She pushes it back, her cheeks flushed pink from the cold.
"I have a gift for you," I say.
Her eyes narrow. "Another necklace? Or maybe shackles this time?"
"Better."
I point toward a glass structure nestled in the trees about a hundred yards away. It looks like a crystal cathedral in the woods.
"The Conservatory," I say. "My mother built it. She loved orchids. I’ve had it... repurposed."
Ivy looks at it, curiosity warring with suspicion. "Repurposed for what?"
"Go look."
She hesitates, then starts walking. I follow a few paces behind, watching her.
She reaches the glass doors and pushes them open.
The air inside is warm, humid, smelling of damp earth and greenery. But the orchids are gone.
In their place is a studio.
But not like the one in the penthouse. This one is wilder. Canvases are stacked everywhere. There are buckets of paint, rags, palette knives. The light pouring in through the glass roof is unfiltered, raw.
And in the center, there is a single, blank canvas on an easel.
Ivy walks into the space, turning in a slow circle. She touches a table covered in charcoal sticks. She looks at the view—the trees, the ocean, the gray sky framed by the glass.
"You brought my things from the city," she whispers, recognizing a specific set of brushes.
"I brought everything," I say, leaning against the doorframe. "You have nothing left in New York, Ivy. This is where you create now."
She turns to me, her eyes shining with unshed tears. "You think you can just buy me off? You think if you give me paint, I’ll forget that I’m a prisoner?"
"No," I say. "I think if I give you paint, you won't go insane. I need you sane, Ivy. I need you sharp."
I walk over to her. I pick up a stick of charcoal and hold it out.
"Paint the storm," I suggest. "Paint the anger. Paint me. I don't care. Just get it out of your system. Because if you keep bottling it up, you’re going to break. And as I told you... I don't break my toys."
She stares at the charcoal. Slowly, her hand reaches out. Her fingers brush mine as she takes it. The contact is electric.
"Thank you," she says, the words stiff, reluctant.
"Don't thank me yet," I say, my voice dropping. "This is the carrot."
"The carrot?" She frowns. "Then what’s the stick?"
I smile. It’s not a nice smile.
"Come with me."
I lead her away from the conservatory, deeper into the woods. The path narrows, the pines pressing in closer. The sound of the ocean fades, replaced by the eerie silence of the forest.
We reach a clearing.
It’s a natural amphitheater, dug into the side of a hill. At the far end, there are hay bales with paper targets pinned to them.
Silhouettes of men.
Ivy stops dead. "A shooting range?"
"The world is not safe, Ivy," I say, walking to a metal table set up at the firing line. On it sits a black case. "I can protect you from most things. But I can't be everywhere at once. And if Nikolai Sokolov sends men here... I need to know you aren't helpless."
I open the case.
Inside lies a Sig Sauer P226 Legion. It’s a beautiful weapon. Heavy, reliable, deadly.
"Have you ever fired a gun?" I ask.
She shakes her head, eyeing the weapon with distaste. "No. I hate guns."
"That’s a luxury for people who aren't hunted," I say. "Pick it up."
"I don't want to."
"Pick. It. Up."
She steps forward, her jaw set. She reaches for the gun. She holds it like it’s a venomous snake—limp-wristed, terrified.
"It’s heavy," she murmurs.
"It’s loaded," I correct. "Treat it with respect."
I step behind her. I press my chest against her back. I can feel the heat of her body through her coat. I wrap my arms around hers, engulfing her.
"Spread your legs," I command softly, my mouth right at her ear.
She stiffens. "What?"
"Your stance," I say, kicking the inside of her boots gently with mine. "Widen your stance. You need a solid base. If you stand like a stiff breeze will blow you over, the recoil will knock you on your ass."
She shuffles her feet apart.
"Lean into me," I instruct.
She hesitates.
"Ivy. Lean back. Trust that I will hold you."
She leans back. Her back presses fully against my chest. I am her wall. I am her support. The intimacy of it is staggering. We are fitted together like puzzle pieces, my hardness against her softness.
I slide my hands down her arms, correcting her grip.
"Thumbs forward," I murmur, adjusting her fingers on the polymer grip. "High on the beavertail. Good. Now, don't lock your elbows. Keep them soft. The gun is an extension of your body, not a separate entity."
My hands cover hers completely. Her hands are so small inside mine.
"Look at the target," I say. "Focus on the front sight. The blurry man in the distance doesn't matter. Only the sight matters."
"I can't do this," she whispers, her breathing shallow. "I can't shoot a person."
"It’s paper," I say. "But if a man comes through that door to take you... to take you back to a basement... you will shoot him. You will shoot him in the chest, and you will watch him fall, and you will feel nothing but relief."
I feel a shudder run through her.
"Breathe," I command. "Inhale... exhale. Squeeze the trigger on the empty lungs. Don't pull it. Squeeze it. Like a lover’s hand."
"Silas..."
"Do it."
I step back, removing my support but staying close enough to catch her.
She stands there, holding the heavy steel. Her arms are shaking.
Then, she steadies.
She takes a breath. She holds it.
BANG.
The sound rips through the quiet morning, violent and absolute. The gun kicks up. Ivy stumbles back a step, gasping.
We look at the target.
She hit the shoulder. Not a kill shot, but a disabling one.
"Again," I say.
"My hand hurts."
"Again."
She fires again. BANG.
Closer to the center.
"Again."
BANG. BANG. BANG.
She empties the magazine. The slide locks back. Smoke drifts from the barrel, smelling of sulfur and burnt powder. It’s the scent of violence.
She lowers the gun, her chest heaving. She turns to look at me.
Her eyes are wide, pupils dilated. Her cheeks are flushed with adrenaline. She looks alive. She looks terrifying.
"How did that feel?" I ask quietly.
She looks at the gun in her hand, then back at me.
"Powerful," she whispers. The admission seems to scare her more than the gun.
"Good."
I take the gun from her. I eject the empty magazine and slam a fresh one in. I rack the slide.
I hold the gun out to her, handle first.
"Take it."
She takes it. She’s more confident this time. The weight is familiar.
Then, she does something I didn't expect.
She turns. She raises the gun.
And she points it at the center of my chest.
The world stops.
The muzzle is a black eye staring straight at my heart. Her finger is on the trigger. Her hands are shaking, but her aim is true.
Silence descends on the clearing. The wind stops. The birds stop.
I look at her. I look at the woman I kidnapped, the woman I forced into marriage, the woman I humiliated at dinner. She has every reason to pull that trigger. She has every reason to end me right here, bury me in the woods, and take the keys to the car.
My heart hammers a slow, heavy rhythm. Thud. Thud. Thud.
I don't feel fear.
I feel... pride.
"Do it," I whisper.
Her breath catches. "I could kill you."
"You could," I agree. "I’m right here. No guards. No witnesses. Just you, me, and the bullet."
I take a step toward her.
The gun doesn't waver.
"Stay back," she warns, her voice trembling.
"Why?" I take another step. The barrel is now inches from my chest. "You want to be free, don't you? This is your chance, Ivy. The only way out of the cage is over the keeper’s dead body."
I step right up to her. I press my chest against the muzzle of the gun. I can feel the heat of the barrel through my shirt, right over my heart.
"Pull the trigger," I dare her. "End it."
She stares at me. Her eyes are filled with tears, swimming with conflict. She hates me. But she’s looking at me with that same intensity she had last night.
We stand there for an eternity, locked in a stalemate of death and desire.
"You’re a monster," she sobs.
"I know."
Her finger tightens on the trigger. I tense, ready for the impact, ready for the darkness.
Then, she screams. A sound of pure frustration.
She wrenches the gun away from my chest and fires into the dirt. BANG.
She drops the weapon as if it’s on fire. She collapses to her knees, sobbing into her hands.
She couldn't do it.
She had the shot. She had the freedom. And she chose me.
I look down at her, a dark, victorious fire spreading through my veins. She is mine. Completely. Even when she holds the power of life and death, she chooses to stay in the cage.
I kneel down in the dirt in front of her. I grab her wrists and pull her hands away from her face.
"Look at me."
She looks at me, her face streaked with tears and dirt.
"You chose," I say, my voice rough. "Remember that. You had the chance, and you chose to stay."
"I hate you," she whispers.
"I know."
I pull her into me. I kiss her.
It’s a brutal kiss. A kiss of adrenaline and survival. I taste the salt of her tears and the metallic tang of the gun oil on her hands. She kisses me back, fierce and angry, her fingers digging into my shoulders.
It’s not love. Not yet.
It’s war.
And I just won the first battle.
"Come," I say, breaking the kiss and standing up. I holster the gun. "Lesson over."
I pull her to her feet. She leans against me, exhausted, her adrenaline crashing.
I walk her back toward the house, my arm heavy around her shoulders.
She is lethal now. She knows how to shoot. She knows how to kill.
But she won't kill me.
And that knowledge is more intoxicating than any drug I have ever known.