30. Black
Black
Helena
By night on my bed I sought him whom my soul loveth: I sought him, but I found him not.
I race against the clock, desperate to return Merriweather to her stall and myself under the covers before I’m discovered.
The night air bites at my cheeks as we reach the stable yard, my pulse pounding with the rhythm of her hooves.
Mid-trot, I swing off her back, stumbling before steadying myself and guiding her into her stall.
My hands work quickly. I shuck off the harness, patting her neck in a rushed gesture of thanks. She whinnies softly, but I don’t have time for more. I bolt for the house, my boots barely skimming the ground.
The back door creaks faintly as I slip inside, locking it behind me. I tread up the stairs two at a time, my steps feather-light to avoid waking Kiran. My breath burns in my chest, and I can feel every second slipping away.
Inside my room, I don’t waste a moment. I strip off the evidence of the night, slipping into a clean nightgown and burrowing under the quilt. The bed is cold, and so am I, my lungs still heaving from the mad rush.
The silence of the house settles over me, heavy yet comforting. I focus on the rhythm of my breaths until the adrenaline fades. My eyes close, not in search of sleep, because I know none will come, but to still the chaos within.
Then I hear it.
A soft creak as the back door is opened.
Then, his boots on the wooden floor. Even before I hear his steps, I feel him; feel the storm raging inside him leaking out, washing over me.
Confusion, frustration, sadness—they ripple through the house like a living thing, tangling with the tension already knotting in my chest.
When his footsteps don’t move toward the stairs, curiosity pricks at me. I sit up, my fingers gripping the edge of the quilt as if debating whether to follow. It’s a fleeting hesitation. I slip into the hall, careful to step over the boards I know will betray me.
Each step on the stairs is a calculated risk, knowing how they groan under pressure.
But I go slowly. As I reach the bottom, I notice a dim glow coming from the office.
There’s no way to know what I’m walking into.
I blow out a steady breath, readying myself for whatever waits for me behind that door.
I soften my expression, masking my unease with feigned sleepiness as I step into the doorway. Silas slumps in the worn leather chair behind his desk. A bottle of gin and a half-empty glass before him, his head in one hand. The other grips the glass like a lifeline.
“Silas?” I whisper hesitantly.
He lifts his head slowly; red-rimmed eyes meeting mine with a hollow stare. He’s pale—a ghost in the feeble light.
“Go back to bed, Helena.” His voice is flat, the words a dismissal as he lifts the glass and turns toward the window.
The profile he shows me is a portrait of exhaustion, of walls thrown up against whatever battle he’s fighting.
“Why are you awake at this hour?” I ask tentatively, stepping closer.
He doesn’t turn, only takes another sip before answering. “I could ask you the same question.”
“I heard the back door,” I reply. “Came down to make sure everything was okay.”
The silence hums with tension as he swirls the liquid in his glass. His gaze stays fixed on it, distant, his profile carved in shadow and resignation. The room feels colder, the air thick.
“Helena,” he finally says, his voice low and gravelly, “do you miss the touch of a man?”
The question lands like a thunderclap, stealing the air from my lungs. My mouth opens, but no sound escapes. The words twist inside me, leaving me off balance. Before I can find a response, he continues, his voice softening, almost as if he’s talking to himself.
“Grief is a funny thing.” He lowers the glass, setting it on the edge of the desk carefully.
His head falls back against the chair, his eyes slipping shut for a brief moment.
“At first, you push away the lonesomeness, like holding onto the sorrow is the only way to honor what you’ve lost. Being alone feels righteous, even when it tears you apart. ”
The chair groans as he leans forward, his gaze catching mine. There’s a rawness there that makes my skin prickle.
“Your body bears the weight of it for so long,” he murmurs wistfully. “The ache, the emptiness, the way loss settles into your bones like it was always meant to be there. You let it take up space, let it swallow everything.”
His voice drops, quieter now, as the chair swivels toward me. “But then one day…it doesn’t weigh as much. The grief loosens its grip. And what’s left…”
His eyes trace me, lingering in a way that pulls the breath from my lungs. Heat blooms in my cheeks under the intensity of his gaze, his unspoken words hanging between us like a thick fog.
“What’s left is a space inside you,” he goes on, his voice a threadbare whisper, “where grief once lived.”
The room seems to close in around us. He places a hand on the desk, pushing to stand. With slow, deliberate steps, he rounds the desk until he’s just feet away. The space between us feels charged, like a storm cloud ready to break.
“I know that void, Silas,” I whisper, my voice shaky. “I only ever knew him. When he left…I thought I’d die without his touch, his voice, his tenderness. Now, I’m not sure if it’s been so long that my body’s just gone cold.”
His expression darkens. He leans back against the desk, crossing his arms. “I don’t think you’ve gone cold, little dove. I think you’ve just forgotten.”
I avert my eyes, ashamed of the truth I’ve confessed, but oddly unburdened by it. My hands tremble as I fight the instinct to hide from his steady presence. His boots move closer, stopping just before my bare feet. A rough finger tilts my chin up, forcing me to meet his gaze.
“You frustrate me, Helena,” he growls. “You act pure and forgotten, like you’ve been untouched by temptation. But meanwhile,”—His eyes sweep over me like a brand—“I trace every line of your body the moment you enter a room. I remember the sounds you made that afternoon in the stables.”
“Why does that frustrate you?” I press, voice trembling.
“Because I don’t want to tarnish you. I don’t want to steal your halo.” His jaw tightens, a war waging behind his eyes. “But the devil inside me wants to wreck you. To wake you up to the temptation you are.”
“I don’t try?—”
He doesn’t let me finish. With unsettling precision, he grabs my arm and spins me toward the desk. His hips press me firmly against its edge, and his hand pushes down on my shoulder, bending me over the cool wood.
He trails his palm slides up my spine, fingers curling possessively around the base of my neck. Leaning in, his heat consumes me, his chest a suffocating pressure against my back.
“Don’t lie to me, little dove,” he breathes against my ear, his voice a dangerous snarl.
“I don’t lie, Mr. Hayes,” I manage, though my voice betrays my trembling resolve .
His laugh is dark, the sound rolling through me like thunder. His lips brush my ear as he whispers, “I don’t think you understand the restraint I’ve gifted you these past weeks. But as each day passes, my patience wears thin.”
My body tenses beneath him, my breaths coming shallow as his grip on my neck tightens just enough to hold me in place. His heat sears through my thin gown, every sensation magnified as my pulse races wildly.
He nudges my legs apart with his knee. His free hand moves with ruthless intent, cupping me possessively through the delicate fabric of my nightgown and panties.
My hips twitch involuntarily, a small betrayal that earns a guttural sound from his chest.
“My innocent little dove,” he rasps, his voice laced with dark satisfaction. “Already wet for me. I should take you right here for lying to me.”
His fingers flex, asserting his claim, and a primal satisfaction drips from his tone.
“You can deny it all you want. Lie to yourself. Lie to me.” His hand presses harder, every word spoken with intensity. “But this?” He grips me, portraying his control. “This tells me the truth. You want it. You need it.”
His hand slides away from the column of my neck, leaving my skin tingling in its absence. I take in a shaky breath, my pulse pounding in my ears. The sound of his belt unbuckling behind me is both a threat and a promise, the soft clink igniting something wild inside me.
“Do you want to remember, little dove?” His voice is rough with intent, cutting through the haze clouding my mind.
My body betrays me, responding to his proximity, his power.
A sharp ache blossoms within, my skin tingling with anticipation.
But my mind battles fiercely, tugging at the threads of restraint.
Is this what I want? Do I truly crave him, or is this need just a phantom of something deeper, something he can no longer fulfill?
I squeeze my eyes shut, fighting the tidal wave of desire surging through me. My breath catches in my throat. Do I risk losing myself to him, knowing he might only leave me emptier than before? Will his touch satisfy the hollowness within me, or will it tear me apart?
A shudder runs through me, and I force my trembling hands to grip the desk for support. He takes a step back, allowing me the space to turn my body toward his. I glance down at his hard cock pressing against the zipper of his worn jeans, then back up into his eyes. “What happens if I do?”