The solid thud of the oak door closing was the only sound, sealing them
into a world of hushed intimacy. In the space of a single heartbeat, the
teasing glint in Silas's eyes vanished, replaced by a devastating seriousness
that stole the air from Elara's lungs.
"We need to talk," he stated, his voice a low, grave rumble
that seemed to vibrate through the very floorboards and freeze the blood in her
veins. "I know about the baby, Elara. So I came."
The confession hung between them, a bomb he had detonated with
terrifying calm. But before the shock could fully register, he moved. In one
fluid, possessive motion, he swept her into his arms. She was too stunned, too
tangled in the web of his words, to resist as he carried her to the small sofa,
depositing her with an unnerving certainty. His long black coat was shrugged
off and tossed over the armrest as an afterthought.
The sofa, once perfectly spacious for her and Chloe, now felt
claustrophobic. He filled the space, his powerful frame making the air crackle
with a dangerous, electric energy. He didn't just sit beside her; he pulled her
into the orbit of his body, his arm a solid, inescapable band around her
shoulders, tucking her against the hard wall of his side.
Too close.
She inhaled sharply, and her senses were immediately flooded with him.
The crisp, cold scent of the night air clung to his clothes, layered over the
faint, expensive smoke of his cologne and something else—something uniquely,
dangerously male that was Silas's alone. It was a scent that should have
screamed danger, yet it coiled around her, an unsettling anchor in the sudden
storm he had brought with him.
Her white, loose nightgown felt like tissue paper, a flimsy barrier
against his intensity. With nothing beneath, a hot wave of vulnerability washed
over her. Her slender shoulders were pressed against the immovable wall of his
chest, her thigh resting against the hard line of his. Through the thin cotton,
she could feel the radiating heat of his body, the defined cord of muscle, the
unshakeable strength.
Two adults. Alone. In the deafening quiet of the sleeping house. The
ambiguity of it was a live wire, sparking a frantic panic low in her belly.
"Silas…" she managed, her voice a breathless whisper. "You need to move
over. Please."
He ignored the plea entirely. Instead, his strong hands settled on her
shoulders, turning her to face him with an effortless strength that made her
feel frustratingly delicate. His dark eyes, intense and searching, scanned
every feature of her face.
"Let me look at you," he murmured, the words a low rasp that feathered
across her skin.
Her face was pale as porcelain, her delicate features almost too fine.
But her eyes—those clear, almond-shaped windows to her soul—were flashing with
a mixture of silk and fire, soft yet fiercely defiant. The primal knowledge
that this woman, this beautiful, infuriating creature, was carrying his child
sent a possessive, protective surge roaring through him—a feeling so raw and
foreign it nearly brought him to his knees.
Unable to withstand the inferno in his gaze, Elara dropped her eyes,
focusing on the ruthless, hard line of his jaw.
His scrutiny didn't waver. Then, his eyes drifted lower, settling on the
loose fabric of her nightgown that draped over her stomach. His voice dropped,
husky with an emotion that made her heart stutter. "You've lost weight. Is it
because of the pregnancy?"
A memory surfaced—his aunt during her pregnancy, how fragile she had
seemed. The thought sent a jolt of pure, undiluted fear straight through him.
He would need to fix this. He would ensure she ate. He would protect her with
everything he had.
"It's... it's part of it," she admitted, her attention snagged
by the subtle twitch of his fingers. A nervous tremor went through her. She
could feel the intent in that tiny movement, a phantom touch already burning on
her skin.
Instinctively, she tightened her stomach, creating a fragile shield.
"It's just a little bean sprout, Silas. You can't feel anything yet."
A ghost of a smile touched his lips, there and gone in an instant.
"I know. I just want to feel... connected. To him. Or to her." He
raised a dark brow, his gaze locking with hers, so intense it felt almost
religious. "May I, Elly? Let me feel our child."
The nickname—Elly—spilled from his lips, soft and intimate, weaving a
spell she hadn't consented to. On his tongue, it wasn't a casual endearment; it
was a claim.
Before her muddled thoughts could form a refusal, he was moving. In one
effortless motion, he lifted her and settled her back onto his lap, her back
now flush against the broad expanse of his chest. He surrounded her, his arms
caging her, his heat enveloping her.
A second later, a warm, calloused palm settled low on her belly, right
over the sanctuary where their child grew. The touch, though through the thin
cotton, was electric, branding her.
Her heart hammered a wild, frantic rhythm against her ribs. He's the
father, she reminded herself, a desperate mantra. He has a right. This is
normal. Just endure it.
But his hand remained still for only a few precious seconds before it
began to move, painting a slow, deliberate circle on her abdomen as if he could
somehow commune with the tiny life within.
A hot, mortifying blush crept up her neck. She slapped her hand down
over his, stopping its hypnotic exploration. "I said you can't feel anything
yet!"
He went perfectly still. His head dipped beside hers, his cheek nearly
brushing her temple as he looked down at their hands—his large and tanned, hers
small and pale, resting together on her stomach. The visual contrast was
startlingly intimate.
He turned his hand, lacing his fingers through hers so her own palm was
now pressed flat against her belly under his.
"So," his breath was a warm caress against the shell of her ear, "when
will I be able to feel them?"
"I… I don't know," she stammered, utterly flustered by his effortless
control. She pulled her hand away as if burned, her skin tingling. "Alright,
that's enough. Let me go. Now."
She needed space to think, to breathe air that wasn't saturated with the
essence of him.
To her surprise, he released his hold. She scrambled off his lap,
putting a few precious feet of carpet between them, her chest rising and
falling rapidly.
"What do you want to say? Say it and then you should go." The words came
out sharper than she intended, a defence mechanism against the chaos he
invoked.
Silas rose to his full height, his presence once again dominating the
room. The four feet between them felt like inches. "The matter of our marriage
is no longer up for debate, Elara. From now on, I take care of you. I take care
of the child. You won't want for anything. Ever."
Elara's eyes flickered with a storm of emotions. She had guessed he
would want the child; his reaction had confirmed it. This—his absolute command,
his unshakeable certainty—was the logical, anticipated next step. It was what
she had once foolishly dreamed of.
But his speed was breathtaking, leaving her dizzy.
"When we get the marriage license—" he began, his tone leaving no room
for alternative outcomes.
"If," she interjected softly, finding a sliver of her backbone.
"When," he corrected, the single word a low, dangerous vibration that
brooked no argument. "When we get the license. When do you want the wedding?"
Elara blinked, thrown completely off balance. They had just—or rather,
he had just—broached the subject of marriage. She hadn't agreed, and he was
already talking licenses and ceremonies?
"Tomorrow is a public holiday," she said, grasping for the most
practical objection. "The Civil Affairs Bureau is closed."
A faint line of irritation appeared between his dark brows. "When do
they reopen?"
"Five days."
"Too long," he stated flatly, his mind already working behind his
obsidian eyes, no doubt calculating how to bend the entire city bureaucracy to
his will.
She took a steadying breath, finding more solid ground for her
resistance. "I haven't even spoken to my uncle yet." Robert Hayes had been her
guardian. His approval, especially with her grandfather's inheritance hanging
in the balance, was not just a formality; it was a necessity.
Silas's gaze sharpened. He knew all about her uncle from the dossier
Ethan had compiled. "I'll handle it. I'll arrange a meeting. You just need to
decide on the wedding. Do you want it soon, before you start to show? Or after
the baby is born? The choice is yours."
His concession surprised her. But the biggest choice, the one that
mattered most, felt entirely off the table.
"Can we… not have a wedding at all?" The question came out small, almost
timid against the force of his will.
His expression stilled, the air growing thick enough to choke on. "Give
me one good reason why we shouldn't."
She swallowed, feeling like a butterfly pinned under the intensity of
his focus. "I just… I don't want a big spectacle. I don't want the attention."
The excuse sounded weak even to her own ears.
He was silent for a long, agonising moment, his eyes seeing right
through the flimsy facade to the fear she was trying to hide. When he finally
spoke, his voice was a low, razor-sharp whisper that cut her to the core.
"Are you afraid of the whispers?" he asked, taking a single, deliberate
step forward that shrank the room. "Of being seen as the unmarried girl who got
herself pregnant?" He took another step, his presence overwhelming, his eyes
dark with a knowing edge. "Or is it that you're ashamed to stand next to me?
That you don't want the world to know you're marrying your ex-boyfriend's
father?"
The words hung in the air, brutal and undeniable, stripping every
pretence away and leaving only the raw, terrifying truth.