CHAPTER 19
CONCRETE AND BLOOD
POV: IVY
The world narrows down to the sound of a steel door sealing shut.
Clang. Hiss. Thud.
The sound is heavy, final. It vibrates through the soles of my feet, traveling up my legs and settling in the pit of my stomach. It is the sound of a tomb being sealed.
We are underground.
I don't know how deep. The elevator ride felt like it took forever, descending into the bowels of the earth beneath the Estate. The air down here is different. Recycled. Cool. It smells of ozone and concrete, sterile and devoid of life.
Silas sets me down.
My legs give out immediately.
I don't faint, but my knees simply refuse to hold my weight. I slide down against the cold metal wall, pulling my knees to my chest.
I look at my hands.
They are shaking so violently they look blurred. There is a smear of dark crimson on my right palm. It’s dried now, flaky and brown at the edges.
It’s not my blood.
It belongs to the man in the doorway. The man whose chest exploded when I squeezed the trigger.
I squeeze my hands into fists, trying to hide the stain, but I can still feel it. It burns. It feels like branding iron.
"Ivy."
Silas is there. He’s crouching in front of me, blocking out the harsh fluorescent lights of the bunker. He has shed his tactical vest and his rifle. He’s just in his black t-shirt and cargo pants, both stained with grime and other men’s blood.
"Look at me," he commands.
I shake my head. I can't look at him. If I look at him, I have to acknowledge what I did. I have to acknowledge that I am a killer.
"I shot him," I whisper. The words feel jagged in my throat. "I just... I didn't even think. I just saw him and I shot him."
"You survived," Silas says. His voice is hard, stripping away the panic. "He came to kill you. You killed him first. That is the law of nature."
"I’m a murderer."
"No. You are a victor."
He grabs my wrists, forcing my hands open. He looks at the blood on my palm. He doesn't look disgusted. He looks reverent.
"This washes off," he says. "The memory won't. But the blood... we can get rid of that."
He stands up and pulls me to my feet. I stumble, leaning against his solid chest. He wraps an arm around my waist, supporting me completely.
"Come. Let’s get you clean."
He leads me deeper into the bunker.
It’s not just a concrete box. It’s a fully functional apartment, albeit a stark, industrial one. There is a small kitchenette, a living area with a leather sofa, and a wall of monitors that are currently dark.
He guides me into a bathroom. It’s tiled in slate gray, with a large, open shower area.
"Strip," he says.
I stand there, frozen. My fingers feel like clumsy sausages. I can't undo the buttons of the shirt I’m wearing—his shirt, which I stole this morning. It seems like a lifetime ago.
Silas sees my struggle. He brushes my hands aside.
"Let me."
He unbuttons the shirt. He peels it off my shoulders. It falls to the floor with a soft rustle.
I am naked. The platinum anklet on my left leg glints under the bathroom lights, the only thing adorning my body besides the dirt and the guilt.
Silas turns on the water. Steam begins to rise instantly.
He steps in with me, fully clothed.
"Silas, your clothes..."
"Use the soap," he orders, ignoring me. He hands me a bar of white soap that smells of nothing. Clinical.
I try to wash my hands. I scrub at the dried blood on my palm. It flakes off, swirling pink down the drain. But I scrub harder. I feel like it’s seeping into my pores.
"It’s not coming off," I panic, my breathing hitching. "Silas, it’s not coming off!"
He takes the soap from me. He takes my hand.
He brings it to his lips. He kisses the center of my palm, right over the spot where the gun recoil hit, right where the blood was.
"It’s gone," he says against my skin. "See? It’s gone."
I look. My hand is clean. Red from the hot water and my scrubbing, but clean.
I collapse against him.
The water soaks his black t-shirt, plastering it to his muscles. I bury my face in his wet chest, sobbing. I let it all out—the terror of the drone, the fear of the dark house, the sound of the door splintering, the deafening crack of the gunshot.
Silas holds me. He doesn't shush me. He doesn't tell me to stop crying. He stands there like a rock in the middle of a river, letting my grief crash over him.
He washes my hair. His fingers are strong, massaging my scalp, grounding me. He washes my back, my arms, my legs. He is thorough, methodical, erasing the touch of the outside world.
"Why?" I ask into his wet shirt. "Why did they come? You said the Estate was safe."
"Nowhere is safe," Silas says grimly. "Safety is an illusion we buy with violence. Today, the price went up."
He turns off the water.
He grabs a thick towel and wraps me in it. He leads me out of the bathroom and over to the small bed in the corner of the room.
He sits me down.
"Stay here. I need to change."
He strips off his wet clothes, tossing them into a pile. He pulls on a pair of gray sweatpants from a drawer. He is bare-chested. The scars on his torso stand out in the stark light.
He grabs a bottle of water and hands it to me. "Drink."
I take a sip. My throat feels like sandpaper.
"Silas," I say, my voice clearer now. "The text."
He freezes, his back to me. "What text?"
"In the conservatory. Before you left. You got a text. You said... you said it was nothing. But you lied. Your eye twitched."
He turns around slowly. He leans against the metal table, crossing his arms over his chest. His expression is unreadable, a mask of stone.
"You saw the files," he says. "In my office."
"I saw them," I confirm. "I saw that you’ve been paying my father’s debts for years. I saw that you saved me from the Albanians. From the bookies."
"Then you know what kind of man your father was."
"Was?"
The word hangs in the air. Past tense.
My heart gives a painful lurch. Not of grief, exactly, but of finality.
"The text was from Nikolai," Silas says. His voice is flat, clinical. "He had Marcus. He sent a photo. He offered a trade."
I grip the edge of the mattress. "What trade?"
"Your father for you."
I close my eyes. Of course. Marcus Ross, selling me out one last time. Even at the end, I was just currency to him.
"And?" I whisper. "What did you do?"
"I went to the meet," Silas says. "I found him in a warehouse in Montauk."
"And you made the trade?"
"No."
Silas pushes off the table and walks toward me. He stops in front of the bed, looking down at me with eyes that are dark and ancient.
"I don't trade what is mine, Ivy. Not for anything. Not for anyone."
"So... where is he?"
"He’s dead."
I flinch. Even expecting it, hearing it out loud is a physical blow.
"Did Nikolai kill him?"
"No," Silas says. "I did."
Silence descends on the bunker. The hum of the air filtration system seems to get louder.
He killed my father.
The man who stood in the kitchen making pancakes when I was five. The man who taught me to ride a bike before the gambling took his soul. The man who looked me in the eye and lied about the rent money. The man who offered me to the Russian mob to save his own skin.
Silas put a bullet in him.
I look up at Silas. I search for regret in his face. There is none. There is only a brutal honesty. He isn't asking for forgiveness. He is stating a fact.
"He was a liability," Silas says. "As long as he was alive, he was a weakness. He would have sold you again. He would have told them how to get to you. He was the leak."
"You killed him," I repeat, testing the weight of the sentence.
"Yes."
I wait for the anger. I wait for the hatred to come rushing back, the hatred I felt when he first kidnapped me.
But it doesn't come.
Instead, I feel... light.
A weight I have been carrying since I was twelve years old—the weight of my father’s failures, his debts, his pathetic neediness—is suddenly gone. The cord has been cut.
"Good," I whisper.
Silas blinks, surprised. "Good?"
"He sold me," I say, my voice gaining strength. "He sold me to you. Then he tried to sell me to Nikolai. He didn't love me, Silas. He just wanted to cash out."
I stand up. The towel slips a little, exposing my shoulder.
"You’re the only one who paid the price and kept the receipt," I say. "You’re the only one who actually wanted me."
I step closer to him. I place my hand on his bare chest, right over his heart. It’s beating steady and strong.
"He’s gone," I say. "I have no one left."
"You have me," Silas growls. He covers my hand with his. "You have me, Ivy. Until the sun burns out. Until the earth cracks open. You are stuck with me."
"I know."
And for the first time, the thought doesn't make me want to run. It makes me want to burrow deeper.
The adrenaline from the shooting, the shock of the attack, the revelation of the files, the death of my father—it’s too much death. Too much ending.
I need a beginning. I need to feel something that isn't cold and final.
I look at his mouth.
"Make me forget," I whisper.
Silas’s eyes darken. The blue fire flares up, hungry and intense. "Forget what?"
"Forget the blood on my hands. Forget the sound of the gunshot. Forget that I’m an orphan in a concrete box."
I drop the towel.
It pools at my feet. I stand naked before him, vulnerable and demanding.
"Make me feel alive, Silas."
He doesn't hesitate.
He grabs me. He lifts me up, wrapping my legs around his waist. He kisses me with a desperation that mirrors my own. It’s raw. It’s messy. It’s a collision of two broken people trying to fuse their jagged edges together.
He carries me to the bed and throws me down.
He doesn't bother with foreplay. He doesn't bother with the slow, torturous teasing he used last night. We don't have time for games. We are survivors, and we need to prove it.
He shoves his sweatpants down. He is hard, ready.
He climbs over me, his weight crushing me into the mattress, shielding me from the world, from the ghosts, from the truth.
"Look at me," he commands, his voice rough.
I look at him.
"You are alive," he says, entering me in one smooth, powerful thrust. "You are here. You are mine."
I gasp, arching my back, welcoming the intrusion. It hurts, but it’s a good pain. It’s a real pain. It chases away the numbness.
"Yes," I sob. "Yes, Silas."
He moves with a frantic rhythm. Skin slapping against skin. Breath mingling. Sweat slicking our bodies.
It’s not about dominance tonight. It’s about connection. He is tethering me to the earth. He is fucking the death out of the room.
I wrap my arms around his neck, holding on for dear life. I match his pace. I meet his thrusts. I am not a victim. I am a participant.
"I’ve got you," he grunts against my ear. "I’m never letting you go."
"Don't," I beg. "Don't let go."
The climax builds fast, fueled by the adrenaline still coursing through my veins. It’s a tidal wave. It sweeps me up and crashes me against the rocks.
I scream his name.
I shatter.
And in the pieces, I find myself.
Silas follows me seconds later, groaning deep in his chest, pouring himself into me, sealing the bond with everything he has.
He collapses on top of me, heavy and warm.
We lie there in the silence of the bunker. The only sound is our ragged breathing and the hum of the air filter.
I run my fingers through his damp hair. I trace the scar on his back.
My father is dead. The house is ruined. We are hiding underground like rats.
But as Silas lifts his head and kisses me softly on the lips, his eyes filled with a terrifying, absolute devotion...
I know one thing for certain.
I would rather be a rat in this bunker with him than a princess in a tower without him.
The corruption is complete.
I am his.