CHAPTER 28
THE PULSE OF TREASON
POV: SILAS
Trust is a fragile architecture. You build it brick by brick, layer by layer, sealing it with blood and shared violence. But one crack in the foundation—one single, hairline fracture—and the whole tower threatens to come down.
I am sitting in the boardroom of Vane Enterprises, fifty floors above the city I conquered. Ten men in expensive suits are talking about logistical supply chains and quarterly projections.
I don't hear a word they say.
My world is focused entirely on the phone lying face up on the mahogany table.
The screen displays a pulsing green line.
SUBJECT: WIFE. STATUS: ACTIVE. HEART RATE: 122 BPM.
She is supposed to be at the gallery. She told me this morning, while I was fastening the diamond necklace around her throat, that she needed solitude. She said she was going to sketch in the private studio I built for her.
Sketching does not elevate a heart rate to one hundred and twenty-two beats per minute.
Running does. Fear does. Sex does.
I tap the screen to expand the GPS data.
LOCATION: MADISON SQUARE PARK.
She is not at the gallery. She is sitting on a park bench twenty blocks away.
I stare at the dot. It’s stationary.
Why is her heart racing while she sits still?
"Mr. Vane?" The CFO clears his throat, looking at me nervously. "Regarding the acquisition of the Brooklyn terminal..."
I stand up. The chair scrapes loudly against the floor.
"Buy it," I say, buttoning my jacket. "Fire the management. Burn the books."
"Sir, we haven't even discussed the price."
"I don't care about the price," I snarl, grabbing my phone. "I care about the time."
I walk out of the room, leaving a silence thick with confusion in my wake.
I get into the private elevator. My thumb hovers over the screen.
125 BPM.
Rage, cold and black, begins to coil in my gut. It mixes with the bile of suspicion.
Is she running? No. If she were running, she’d be at the airport. She’s sitting in a park in the middle of the day.
Is she meeting someone?
The image of the man from the gallery flashes in my mind. The cheap suit. The tired eyes. The way he leaned into her space, his hand brushing the silk of her dress.
Just a fan, she had said.
I didn't believe her then. I don't believe her now.
I exit the building. Luca brings the car around—a black armored sedan this time.
"Madison Square Park," I order, getting in the back. "Don't stop for lights."
"Trouble, Boss?" Luca asks, glancing in the rearview mirror.
"Treason," I whisper.
We pull up to the curb ten minutes later. I don't get out immediately. I roll down the tinted window just an inch.
I scan the park. It’s lunchtime. The place is crowded with tourists, nannies, and office workers eating sandwiches.
I spot her instantly.
She is sitting on a bench near the fountain. She is wearing a trench coat belted tightly at the waist and dark sunglasses. She looks like a spy from a noir film. She looks breathtaking.
And she is not alone.
Sitting next to her—too close, invading her perimeter—is the man. The one with the cheap suit.
My hand tightens on the door handle until the leather creaks.
He is talking to her. He is leaning forward, elbows on his knees, holding a paper coffee cup. He looks intense. Serious.
And Ivy...
She isn't pulling away. She is leaning in. She is listening. Her lips are parted. She takes a sip of her own coffee, then says something that makes the man pause.
She smiles.
It’s not a polite smile. It’s the sharp, dangerous smile she gave me in the shipyard before she blew the crane. It’s the smile of a woman enjoying the game.
130 BPM.
She is excited.
She is getting a rush from this man. From this secret meeting in the middle of my city.
Is it sexual?
The thought hits me like a physical blow.
Jealousy creates a red haze in my vision.
I want to get out of the car. I want to walk over there, grab that man by his throat, and crush his windpipe in front of the Shake Shack line.
I want to drag Ivy back to the car by her hair and remind her who owns her.
But I don't move.
I am a predator. Predators wait.
I need to know the extent of the betrayal. If I intervene now, she’ll lie. She’s become an expert liar. She’ll say he ambushed her. She’ll say she was just being polite.
I need to see how far she goes.
The man reaches into his jacket. He pulls out a file folder. He hands it to her.
She opens it. She looks at the contents. Her posture stiffens.
135 BPM.
She closes the folder. She doesn't give it back. She slides it into her oversized purse.
She stands up.
The man stands up too. He reaches out, grabbing her arm.
I reach for the door handle. If he doesn't let go in one second, he dies.
Ivy pulls her arm free. She says something sharp. The man steps back, holding his hands up.
She turns and walks away, heading toward Fifth Avenue. She walks with a stride that screams confidence. She doesn't look back.
The man watches her go. Then he takes his phone out and makes a call.
"Luca," I say, my voice devoid of humanity.
"Yeah, Boss?"
"You see the guy on the bench? Brown suit?"
"I see him."
"Get a name," I say. "Get an address. Don't touch him yet. Just find out where he sleeps."
"And Mrs. Vane?"
"Take me home," I say. "I want to be there when she arrives."
I roll up the window.
She took a file from him. She lied about her location. She spiked her heart rate for another man.
I lean back in the seat, closing my eyes.
She wanted to play a game.
Fine.
We’ll play.
POV: IVY
I walk into the penthouse, my heart still fluttering in my chest like a trapped moth.
The meeting with Kane was exhilarating. Terrifying, yes, but exhilarating.
He showed me photos. Grainy surveillance shots of Silas meeting with the Triads. A timeline of the shipyard explosion that contradicts the official gas leak story.
I know he did it, Kane had said. I just need you to confirm it. I can get you immunity, Ivy. I can get you out.
I took the file not because I want immunity, but because I want to know what they have on us. I want to know where the armor is weak so I can patch it.
But God, the rush of sitting there, looking a detective in the eye and lying to his face... it was better than the champagne.
I toss my purse—with the file hidden in the lining—onto the console table in the foyer.
"Silas?" I call out.
The apartment is quiet. The curtains are drawn, casting the living room in deep shadow.
I walk into the main space.
Silas is sitting in the wingback chair facing the window. He is holding a tumbler of amber liquid. He hasn't turned on the lights.
"You’re home early," I say, trying to keep my voice light.
"Am I?"
He turns the chair slowly.
He is still wearing his suit from the office, but he has loosened his tie. His eyes are dark, fixed on me with a laser intensity that makes the hair on my arms stand up.
"How was the gallery?" he asks.
I freeze for a fraction of a second. The lie is ready. I rehearsed it in the elevator.
"Good," I say, walking toward the bar to pour myself a water. "Quiet. I got some sketching done. The lighting was perfect today."
"Sketching," he repeats.
"Yes. Why?"
"What did you sketch?"
"Just... concepts. For the new collection."
I take a sip of water. My hand is steady. I am proud of that.
Silas stands up.
He walks toward me. He moves with that prowling grace that always makes me feel like I should run.
He stops right in front of me. He smells of scotch and cold fury.
"You’re lying," he says softly.
I look up at him. "Excuse me?"
"Your heart rate," he says, tapping the face of his watch. "It peaked at one hundred and thirty-five beats per minute at 12:30 PM. Were you sketching a marathon, Ivy? Or were you doing something else?"
My blood runs cold. The tracker. I forgot about the damn tracker.
"I..." I scramble for an excuse. "I went for a walk. I walked fast. I wanted fresh air."
"In Madison Square Park?"
I stop breathing.
He knows.
He was there. Or he tracked me.
"Silas, let me explain."
"Who is he?"
The question comes out as a growl. He grabs my waist, pulling me hard against him. His fingers dig into my hips, bruising.
"Who is the man in the cheap suit, Ivy?"
"He’s nobody," I whisper. "He’s just..."
"Don't lie to me!" He shakes me once, hard. "I saw you. I saw you sitting with him. I saw you smile at him. I saw you take something from him."
He backs me up until my hips hit the marble bar. He crowds my space, his body a wall of heat and aggression.
"Are you bored?" he demands. "Is that it? Is my money and my power not enough for you? Do you need to fuck slumming strangers in the park to feel something?"
"I’m not fucking him!" I shout, pushing against his chest. "You’re crazy! It wasn't like that!"
"Then what was it?"
He grabs my hand—my left hand, with the ring. He squeezes it until my knuckles grind together.
"Did you let him touch you?"
"No!"
"Did you tell him you were unhappy? Did you cry to him about your monster husband?"
"No! Silas, stop!"
"Show me," he snarls.
He lifts me up and slams me onto the marble counter. Glasses rattle. The water pitcher tips over, spilling ice water across the surface, soaking the back of my trench coat.
"Silas!"
"You want to keep secrets?" he hisses, stepping between my legs. "You want to hide things in your purse and in your heart? Fine. But your body... your body never lies to me."
He rips my trench coat open. Buttons fly across the room, pinging off the floor.
He tears at the silk blouse underneath.
"I’m going to check," he says darkly. "I’m going to see if you’re wet. And if you are... God help us both."
"Silas, wait—"
He doesn't wait. He shoves my skirt up. He rips my panties aside.
He thrusts his fingers inside me. Rough. Deep. Unapologetic.
I gasp, my head falling back. It’s invasive. It’s angry.
And God help me, I am wet.
The adrenaline from the meeting with Kane, the fear of being caught, the violence of Silas’s reaction... it all pooled between my legs.
Silas freezes.
He feels the slick heat.
He pulls his hand out. He looks at his fingers, glistening in the dim light.
His face contorts. Pain. Betrayal. And a murderous rage.
"You’re wet," he whispers. "You met him... and you’re wet."
"It’s not for him!" I cry, grabbing his face. "It’s the danger, Silas! It’s the game! I didn't touch him! I swear!"
"You’re wet for the game?" he asks. "You’re risking our lives, risking everything I built, for a thrill?"
"Yes!" I admit, the truth tearing out of me. "Because you made me this way! You taught me to hunt! You can't turn me into a wolf and then expect me to sit in the gallery like a poodle!"
He stares at me. His chest heaving. The anger warring with the twisted pride.
"A wolf," he mutters.
He unzips his pants.
"If you want danger," he growls, gripping his cock. "I’ll give you danger."
He grabs my hips. He lifts me slightly.
"Wrap your legs."
I wrap them. I have no choice. I don't want a choice.
He drives into me.
It’s the hardest he has ever taken me. There is no preparation. No kindness. It is a punishment. It is an exorcism. He wants to scrub the memory of the park from my mind with friction and force.
"You are mine," he grunts with every thrust. Thud. "Mine." Thud.
My back slides against the wet marble. The cold water soaks my skin, the heat of his body burns my front. It is sensory overload.
"Silas," I moan.
"Look at me!" he commands. "Who owns you?"
"You do!"
"Who makes your heart beat?"
"You!"
He reaches down and grabs the platinum anklet. He uses it to pull my leg wider, opening me completely to him.
"This tracker," he pants. "It stays on forever. I am going to watch every beat. Every spike. And if I see it go up for anyone else again... I will kill them in front of you."
"Kill him," I whisper, delirious with pleasure. "Kill everyone but us."
That breaks him.
He hammers into me, finding a rhythm that is punishing and perfect. I claw at his back, leaving marks through his shirt. I bite his shoulder.
We come together in a violent, shattering climax that leaves us both gasping, ruined, and tangled together on the wet bar.
Silas doesn't pull out. He rests his forehead against mine, his breathing ragged.
"The file," he says, his voice hoarse. "In your purse. What is it?"
I open my eyes. I look at him.
I can't lie anymore. Not right now.
"Evidence," I whisper. "He’s a cop, Silas. Detective Kane."
Silas goes still. Deadly still.
"A cop."
"He knows about the shipyard. He knows about Nikolai. He wanted me to turn on you."
Silas pulls back. He looks at me. The jealousy is gone, replaced by a cold, tactical calculation.
"And?" he asks. "Did you?"
"I took the file," I say. "To see what they have. To protect us."
He searches my face. He sees the truth.
He kisses me. Softly this time. A reward.
"A cop," he muses. "You played a cop."
He pulls out of me and adjusts his clothes. He picks me up off the counter and sets me on my feet. He buttons his jacket, regaining his composure instantly.
He walks to the foyer. He picks up my purse. He pulls out the file.
He flips through it.
"Sloppy," he comments. "They have circumstantial evidence. No bodies. No weapon."
He looks at me.
"You did good getting this. But you were reckless."
"I was bored," I say, leaning against the doorframe, my clothes still disheveled.
"Well," Silas says, pulling a lighter from his pocket and setting the corner of the file on fire. He drops it into a metal wastebasket and watches it burn.
"You won't be bored anymore."
He looks at me through the flames.
"We have a detective to hunt."