Chapter 15 #2
My body aches—ribs screaming with every breath, wrists still tender where the zip ties cut in, throat raw—but lying here is worse. The walls are closing in. The monitors beeping beside me feel like a countdown I can't control.
I need to move.
I need air.
I need to feel like I'm still alive.
I push myself up slowly, gritting my teeth against the sharp pull in my side. The IV tugs at my arm, and I glance down at the needle taped into my vein. I hate it. Hate being tethered to anything.
The door opens before I can try to stand.
Silas.
Of course.
He steps inside, his eyes immediately locking onto me, assessing. His jaw tightens slightly when he sees me sitting up, legs swung over the side of the bed.
"You should be lying down," he says, his voice low.
"I'm done lying down," I snap, though my breath is already coming too fast.
He crosses the room in three strides, and suddenly he's right there—close enough that I catch his scent.
Smoke.
Cedar.
Something darker underneath. Leather, maybe. Gunpowder.
And cigarettes.
I look up at him, my eyes narrowing slightly.
"You've been smoking," I say.
He doesn't deny it.
"Yes."
"Take me outside," I say flatly. "I need a cigarette. And I need to walk."
His expression doesn't change, but something flickers in his eyes.
Hesitation.
Worry.
"You're still healing," he says carefully. "Your ribs—"
"I don't care," I interrupt, my voice sharper now. "I'm not asking permission. I'm telling you. I need to get out of this room. I need air. I need to move. So, either you help me, or I do it myself."
His jaw tightens.
For a moment, I think he's going to argue.
But then he exhales slowly, his shoulders dropping slightly.
"Alright," he says quietly. "But we go slow. And if you start bleeding again, we're coming back inside."
"Fine."
He reaches for the IV stand, his movements efficient and careful. He disconnects the line from my arm, taping a small bandage over the needle site. Then he steps closer, his hand hovering near my elbow.
"Let me help you," he says.
I want to tell him I don't need help.
But the truth is, I do.
My legs feel weak when I stand, and the room tilts slightly. Silas's hand is there immediately, steadying me, his grip firm but not controlling.
"Easy," he murmurs. "Take your time."
I hate how much I need him right now.
Hate how my body betrays me.
But I also hate the idea of staying in that bed more.
So, I let him guide me.
We move slowly toward the door, his hand on my elbow, his other hand hovering near my waist in case I stumble. He's careful. Attentive. Watching me without making a big deal of it.
The hallway is quiet.
Dim lighting. Clean walls. No windows.
I don't know where we are.
But I don't ask.
Not yet.
We reach a door at the end of the hall, and Silas pushes it open.
Fresh air hits me like a slap.
Cold.
Sharp.
Real.
I breathe in deeply, and my ribs scream in protest, but I don't care.
It's worth it.
We step outside onto what looks like a private patio. Stone pavers. Low lighting. Trees in the distance. The sky is dark; stars scattered across it like broken glass.
It's quiet.
Peaceful.
And for the first time in days, I feel like I can breathe.
Silas pulls a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, shaking one out and handing it to me. Then he lights it, the flame briefly illuminating his face.
I take a drag, the smoke burning my throat, and I close my eyes.
God, I needed this.
We start walking.
Slowly.
Silas matches my pace, his hand still hovering near my elbow, ready to catch me if I stumble. He doesn't rush me. Doesn't push. Just stays close.
"Where are we?" I ask after a moment, my voice rough.
"Safe house," he says. "Off the grid. No one knows about this place except my team."
"How far from Clarks Summit?"
"Far enough."
I take another drag, exhaling slowly.
"What about David?" I ask. "Christina's husband. You said you've been watching him."
Silas nods.
"He's been searching for her since she was taken," he says. "Police aren't helping. He's doing it on his own. Former SEAL, so he has skills. But he doesn't have resources."
"And you're thinking about bringing him in," I say.
"Yes."
"Why haven't you yet?"
"Because I wanted to make sure you were stable first," he says quietly. "And because bringing him in means revealing the operation. Once he knows, there's no going back."
I glance at him, studying his profile in the dim light.
"You think he'll help," I say.
"I think he'll do whatever it takes to get his wife back," Silas says. "And that makes him useful. But it also makes him unpredictable."
"You mean dangerous."
"Yes."
I take another drag, my mind working through the implications.
"What about Christina?" I ask. "Do you know where she is?"
"Not yet," he admits. "But we're tracking leads. Lionetti moved her after the breach. She's valuable. He won't kill her."
"But he'll sell her."
"Yes."
The word lands like a punch.
I stop walking, my hand tightening around the cigarette.
"How long do we have?" I ask quietly.
"I don't know," Silas says. "But we're working on it. Jace is monitoring communications. We'll find her."
"And Inez?"
His jaw tightens.
"Same situation," he says. "Moved after the breach. We're tracking her too."
I close my eyes, the weight of it all pressing down on me.
Two of my friends.
Out there.
Alone.
And I can't do a damn thing about it.
"I hate this," I whisper.
"I know."
"I hate feeling helpless."
"You're not helpless," Silas says quietly. "You're healing. There's a difference."
I open my eyes, looking at him.
"Is there?"
"Yes."
We start walking again, slower now. My ribs ache with every step, but I push through it. The pain is grounding. Real.
"Why did you move the timeline up?" I ask after a moment. "You said you weren't ready. That you didn't have full intel. So why risk it?"
Silas doesn't answer right away.
When he finally speaks, his voice is so low I almost don't hear it.
"Because I couldn't let them have you."
The way he says it makes my chest tighten.
Not I couldn't let them take you.
I couldn't let them have you.
Like I'm something he's already claimed.
Like I belong to him.
I should be angry.
Should tell him he doesn't get to decide that.
But instead, I just watch him.
Really watch him.
The way he's careful with me. The way he adjusts his pace to match mine. The way he's attentive to my pain without making a big deal of it. The way he answers my questions directly, respects my intelligence, includes me in the operation even though I'm injured.
He's not trying to control me.
He's trying to protect me.
And there's a difference.
A big one.
I realize it suddenly, like a switch flipping in my brain.
He's not Izzy.
He's not trying to own me or manipulate me or use me.
He's terrified of losing me.
And that terror—that raw, unfiltered fear—is what drives him.
Not possession.
Love.
The realization hits me like a freight train.
And my body responds before my mind can catch up.
Heat pools low in my belly.
My thighs tighten.
I feel the slickness between my legs, sudden and undeniable.
Fuck.
I take another drag of the cigarette, trying to steady myself.
But I can't stop looking at him.
Can't stop noticing the way his jaw tightens when he glances at me. The way his hand hovers near my waist, ready to catch me. The way his eyes track every movement I make, like he's memorizing me.
Like he's afraid I'll disappear.
"You're staring," he says quietly, his voice rough.
"So are you," I shoot back.
His mouth twitches slightly. Almost a smile.
"I've been staring at you for months," he says. "You're just noticing now."
"I noticed before," I say. "I just didn't know it was you."
"And now that you do?"
I don't answer right away.
Because I don't know what to say.
I don't know how to explain that I'm furious and grateful and terrified and turned on
by the fact that he's been watching me all this time.
So, I don't.
I just finish the cigarette in silence and let him guide me back inside.
---
When I wake again, the room is quiet.
No beeping monitors.
No IV drip.
Just silence.
And Silas.
He's asleep in the reclining chair beside my bed, his head tilted slightly to one side, his arms crossed over his chest. He looks different like this. Softer. Vulnerable in a way I've never seen him.
The hard lines of his face are relaxed. His jaw isn't clenched. His breathing is slow and even.
He looks almost... peaceful.
I don't move.
I just watch him.
And as I do, my mind starts working through everything again.
The lilies on my porch.
The anonymous buyer who saved my shop.
The way he was there at the charity event, watching me from across the room.
The way he showed up for that tattoo session, letting me mark his skin with my art.
He's been watching me for *months. *
Following me.
Protecting me.
Never showing his face but always there.
It should bother me.
It *does* bother me.
But not the way it should.
Because when I compare it to Izzy—to the way Izzy watched me, controlled me, manipulated me—it's not the same.
Izzy watched me because he wanted to *own* me.
Silas watches me because he's terrified of *losing* me.
The distinction is everything.
And my body knows it.
Heat spreads through me again, low and insistent.
My thighs press together.
I feel the slickness between my legs, the throb of my clit.
I wonder how deep it goes.
His "love" for a stranger.
Does he really know me?
Does he know all my secrets?
Or is this just hero syndrome—some twisted need to save someone so he can feel whole?
But even as I think it, I know it's not true.
Because he's not trying to save me.
He's trying to *protect* me.
And there's a difference.
I breathe in slowly, and his scent hits me.
Smoke.
Cedar.
Leather.
Gunpowder.
God, it's intoxicating.
I let my eyes trace over him.
The stubble on his jaw.
The way his chest rises and falls with each breath.
The strength in his shoulders, even relaxed.