CHAPTER 13
THE EYE OF THE STORM
POV: IVY
The sky cracks open.
It’s not just a sound; it’s a physical assault. A boom so loud it rattles the antique window panes in their frames and vibrates through the floorboards, shaking the bed frame.
I gasp, curling into a tight ball under the heavy duvet, pressing my hands over my ears.
I hate storms.
I’ve hated them since I was seven years old, huddled in a closet in Chicago while my father threw plates at the wall in a drunken rage, the sound of shattering china competing with the thunder outside.
To me, storms aren't just weather. They are the soundtrack of violence. They are the noise the world makes when it’s falling apart.
Another flash of lightning illuminates the room, turning the familiar shadows of the armoire and the vanity into jagged, monstrous shapes. One second of blinding white light, followed by plunging darkness.
Then, the thunder rolls again. Long. Deep. Guttural.
I squeeze my eyes shut, counting. One. Two. Three.
The lights flicker.
They buzz angrily, dimming to a sickly yellow, then surging back to full brightness.
Please don't go out. Please.
I can handle the cage. I can handle the silence. But I can't handle the dark. Not here. Not in this gothic mausoleum of a house that groans and settles like a living thing.
Snap.
The room plunges into absolute blackness.
The hum of the HVAC system dies. The digital clock on the bedside table vanishes. The silence that follows is sudden and suffocating, broken only by the rain hammering against the glass like thousands of desperate fingers trying to get in.
"No," I whisper, my voice trembling in the void.
My heart hammers against my ribs, a frantic bird trapped in a cage of bone. I can’t stay here. I can’t stay in this bed, defenseless, blind, waiting for the monsters—real or imagined—to come out of the corners.
I need light. I need a human voice.
I need him.
The thought creates a sickening lurch in my stomach. Silas Vane is the architect of my nightmare. He is the reason I am trapped in this house. He is the man who forced a gun into my hand this morning and dared me to kill him.
But he is also the man who stood between me and the cliff edge. He is the man who fed me when I refused to eat. He is the only other living soul in this wing of the estate.
And right now, the monster I know feels safer than the darkness I don't.
I throw the covers off. The air is already growing cold without the heating. I fumble in the dark, my hands outstretched, searching for the door. My shin hits the edge of the ottoman, pain shooting up my leg, but I keep moving.
I find the cool metal of the door handle. I yank it open.
The hallway is a tunnel of ink.
"Silas?" I call out. My voice sounds thin, swallowed by the vastness of the house.
Lightning flashes again, illuminating the long corridor for a split second. The portraits on the walls look like skulls in the strobe light.
I start to run.
I run on bare feet, my silk nightgown swishing around my legs. I don't know exactly where I’m going, but I follow the instinct that pulls me toward the center of the house. Toward the library. I saw him go there after dinner, carrying a bottle of amber liquid.
I reach the top of the stairs. I grip the banister, descending slowly into the foyer. The lightning casts long, stretching shadows across the marble floor that twist and writhe.
I see a faint glow coming from under the double doors of the library on the ground floor.
Firelight.
I rush toward it, pushing the heavy oak doors open with both hands.
The warmth hits me first. A wave of heat from the massive stone fireplace where a fire is roaring, defying the storm outside. The smell of burning oak, old leather, and scotch fills my nose—a scent that has become inextricably linked to him.
Silas is there.
He is sitting in a wingback leather chair facing the fire, his back to the door. He’s in his shirtsleeves, the white fabric glowing orange in the firelight. A crystal tumbler sits on the small table beside him.
He doesn't turn around.
"You took three minutes longer than I expected," he says. His voice is low, calm, cutting through the thunder like a blade.
I stand in the doorway, shivering, clutching my arms. "The lights went out."
" The storm knocked out the main transformer," he explains, taking a sip of his drink. " The backup generators will kick in for the security systems and the perimeter fence, but I prefer the house dark. It feels... honest."
"I hate it," I whisper.
"I know."
He turns his head then, the firelight catching the sharp angle of his cheekbone and the jagged scar through his eyebrow. He looks demonic. He looks beautiful.
"Come here, Ivy."
It’s the same command as always. Come. Sit. Eat. Stay.
And just like always, I obey. Not because I have to, but because my legs are shaking so badly I need to sit down, and the only chair in the room is the one opposite him.
I walk across the Persian rug, the wool soft under my feet. I sit on the edge of the leather sofa, tucking my legs up under me, trying to get as close to the fire as possible without getting too close to him.
Silas watches me. His eyes are dark pools reflecting the dancing flames. He looks relaxed, unbothered by the chaos raging outside.
"You’re shaking," he notes.
"It’s loud," I say, flinching as another boom of thunder shakes the floor. "I don't like the noise."
"Fear of loud noises is a primal instinct," Silas muses, swirling the liquid in his glass. "It triggers the fight or flight response. But since you can't fly..."
"...I have to fight," I finish for him, remembering the gun.
"Or," he says softly, "you have to find shelter."
He holds his glass out to me. "Drink."
I hesitate. "What is it?"
"Scotch. Single malt. Aged eighteen years. It will burn, but it will warm you."
I lean forward and take the glass. our fingers brush—a deliberate lingering touch on his part. I bring the crystal to my lips and take a sip.
It tastes like smoke and peat. It burns all the way down my throat, settling in my stomach like a hot coal. I cough slightly, handing it back.
"Better?"
"A little."
Silas sets the glass down. He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, clasping his hands. The posture brings him closer to me. The firelight flickers across his face, highlighting the white line of the scar.
I find myself staring at it. I’ve stared at it before, but never this close. Never in this light. It splits his eyebrow perfectly, a jagged interruption to his flawless face.
"You want to ask," he says.
I look into his eyes. "Ask what?"
"About the scar. You’ve been looking at it since the moment I walked into your apartment."
I bite my lip. "How did it happen?"
Silas runs his thumb over the scar, a subconscious gesture. His expression darkens, the shadows on his face deepening.
"My father gave it to me."
The admission hangs in the air, heavy and suffocating.
"Your father?" I whisper. "How old were you?"
"Twelve," he says. "The same age you were when your mother left. Twelve seems to be a pivotal year for broken children."
He picks up the glass again, staring into the amber depths.
"He was a hard man. A cruel man. He believed that fear was the only currency that mattered. He wanted to teach me a lesson about hesitation."
"Hesitation?"
"We were hunting," Silas says, his voice detached, as if he’s reciting a story from a book. "Right here on this estate. He gave me a rifle and told me to shoot a deer. A doe. She was beautiful. Big brown eyes. She wasn't running. she was just... watching me."
I hold my breath, picturing a young Silas, the gun heavy in his hands, facing an innocent creature. It mirrors what happened this morning.
"I couldn't do it," Silas continues. "I hesitated. I lowered the rifle. I looked at him, waiting for permission to let her go."
He takes a long swallow of the scotch.
"He didn't give permission. He took the rifle from my hands. He reversed it. And he struck me across the face with the stock."
I gasp, my hand flying to my mouth. "Oh my God."
"The sight sliced my brow open. Blood everywhere. blinded me in one eye for a week." Silas touches the spot again. "He told me, 'Hesitation is death, Silas. Mercy is a weakness that will get you killed. Next time, you pull the trigger, or you become the target.'"
"That’s... that’s horrific," I say, tears pricking my eyes. Not for myself this time, but for the boy he used to be. "He was a monster."
"He was a teacher," Silas corrects, though his tone is bitter. "He was right. In our world, Ivy, hesitation is death. If I had hesitated with the Sokolovs, I would be dead, and you would be in a brothel in Dubai. The scar reminds me of what happens when you try to be soft."
He looks at me then, his gaze intense, piercing.
"That’s why I pushed you today. That’s why I put the gun in your hand. I won't let you be the victim. I won't let you be the deer."
"So you became the hunter," I say softly.
"I became the wolf," he says. "To protect what is mine."
Another crack of thunder splits the air, closer this time. The library lights up with a blue-white flash.
I flinch violently, letting out a small cry. I bury my face in my hands, curling inward.
"Ivy."
His voice is closer.
I look up.
Silas has moved. He’s kneeling on the rug in front of me, between my legs. He’s so close I can feel the heat radiating off him.
"Look at me," he commands.
I lower my hands.
"It’s just noise," he says. "It can't hurt you. The walls are stone. The foundation is solid. Nothing gets in here unless I allow it."
"I know," I whisper. "But I can't stop the feeling. I feel like the sky is falling."
"Let it fall," he says darkly. "I’ll hold it up."
He reaches out and places his large, warm hands on my knees. His thumbs rub soothing circles against the silk of my nightgown.
"You’re safe," he promises. "You are in the eye of the storm. Nothing touches you here."
I look at him. The firelight dances in his eyes, making them look like molten gold. He looks fierce. Protective. Indestructible.
And God help me, I believe him.
My father threw plates. Silas’s father used a rifle stock. We are both wreckage from the men who were supposed to love us.
Maybe that’s why I don't pull away when his hands slide up my thighs. Maybe that’s why, when the next clap of thunder shakes the room, I don't cower.
I lean forward.
I slide off the sofa and onto the rug, into the space between his spread legs. I kneel before him, my hands resting on his chest.
Silas freezes. He looks down at me, surprise flickering in his expression.
"Ivy?"
"Hold me," I whisper. The words cost me everything, but I say them. "Just... hold me until it stops."
He doesn't hesitate. He doesn't mock me.
He wraps his arms around me, pulling me tight against his hard chest. One hand cradles the back of my head, pressing my face into the crook of his neck.
He smells of smoke and safety.
I close my eyes, breathing him in. His heart beats against my ear—steady, powerful, rhythmic. It drowns out the thunder. It drowns out the wind.
For a long time, we just stay like that. The monster and the captive, huddled together by the fire while the world ends outside.
His hand strokes my hair. Long, hypnotic movements.
"You should have shot me," he murmurs into my hair. "This morning. You should have pulled the trigger."
"Why?" I ask, my voice muffled against his shirt.
"Because now..." His grip tightens, his fingers digging into my scalp, turning possessive. "Now I’m never letting you go. You realized tonight that the dark is scary, didn't you? You realized you need the wolf to keep the other beasts away."
I pull back slightly, just enough to look at him. Our faces are inches apart. His lips are parted, his breath mingling with mine.
"I didn't choose the wolf," I say softly. "The wolf caught me."
"And the wolf is starving," he growls.
He lowers his head.
I think he’s going to kiss me. I want him to kiss me. The adrenaline of the storm has morphed into something else—a hum of electricity in my veins that demands contact.
But he doesn't kiss my lips.
He presses his mouth to the scar on my soul—or the closest physical thing to it. He kisses the pulse point at my throat, right above the diamond collar.
It’s a hot, open-mouthed kiss. His tongue traces the vein. He sucks gently, leaving a mark.
I gasp, my head falling back, exposing myself to him.
"Silas..."
"Shh," he vibrates against my skin. "Don't speak. Just feel."
He moves his hands down my back, cupping my ass through the thin silk, pulling me harder against his erection. He is hard. Painfully hard.
"You feel that?" he whispers against my throat. "That’s for you. All of it. But I won't take you. Not tonight."
"Why?" I breathe, frustrated and confused.
"Because you came to me for safety," he says, pulling back to look me in the eye. His expression is tortured, strained with control. "If I take you now, while you’re scared, I’m no better than my father. I’m no better than yours."
He brushes his thumb over my wet lips.
"I want you brave, Ivy. I want you to come to my bed when the sun is shining, not just when the lightning strikes."
He stands up, lifting me with him effortlessly.
"Come. The storm is passing."
He carries me back upstairs, through the dark hallways, back to the bedroom.
He lays me on the bed and covers me with the duvet. He lies down next to me, fully clothed, on top of the covers.
He pulls me against his side.
"Sleep," he commands.
And for the first time in my life, with the storm still raging faintly in the distance and the man who kidnapped me holding me captive in his arms...
I sleep.