The plush silence of the Thorne's sitting room was shattered by Ingrid's
sharp, disbelieving gasp.
"Silas Thorne," she said, her voice dropping to a deadly calm
that was far more threatening than any shout. "Are you telling me you
haven't told Elara that you're infertile?"
The question hung in the air, heavy and accusatory.
Silas froze, the ice in his whiskey glass pausing mid-swirl. From the
opposite armchair, his uncle, Arthur Winslow, fixed him with a rare, unblinking
stare, all traces of his usual easygoing demeanour gone.
Under their combined scrutiny, Silas slowly uncrossed his long legs,
setting his posture straighter. The casual arrogance he usually wore like a
second skin seemed to tighten around him.
"No," he admitted, his voice a low rumble. "I
haven't."
How could he? The very reason for this conversation was absurd. They
wouldn't believe him even if he spelled it out—not when Elara was already
carrying his children, a secret he guarded fiercely. The mere thought of it, of
her, caused an unconscious, possessive smile to touch his lips.
Thwump.
A velvet couch cushion hit him square in the chest, knocking the smirk
right off his face.
"You wretched boy!" Ingrid hissed, her brilliant peach-blossom
eyes—so like his own—flashing with maternal fury. "You got the marriage
certificate first and still haven't told her the truth? What were you
thinking?"
She rose, pacing before the fireplace like an angered lioness.
"This is the kind of thing you confess before you legally bind someone to
you for life! Keeping it quiet now that it's done… are you trying to bully that
sweet girl because she's young? Are you just waiting for her to find out and
serve you with divorce papers?"
The word divorce sent a cold jolt through him. Silas tossed the cushion
aside, his expression hardening into an impermeable mask. His voice dropped,
laced with a finality that brooked no argument.
"Don't worry," he stated, each word measured and ice-cold.
"There will be no divorce. I have a plan. I will tell her everything, on
my own terms."
His world was a viper's nest of shadows, complexities, and dark secrets.
He needed to untangle the most dangerous threads before he could bring his
innocent bride into the fold. He'd just managed to tie her to him; the last
thing he wanted was to scare her away with the full, brutal truth too soon.
Ingrid studied him, her anger gradually receding into wary concern. She
finally nodded, conceding to his stubborn resolve.
Arthur cleared his throat, seamlessly stepping into the role of the
pragmatic patriarch. "Silas, now that the deed is done and we know,
certain traditions must be observed. We need to arrange a meeting between the
families. And the wedding—what are your plans? The Thornes and Winslows will
expect a celebration worthy of the occasion."
At this, Silas's gaze darkened. He looked down into his glass, the ice
now melted. "There's no need for a parental meeting," he said, his
tone softer but laced with a grim edge. "Her parents passed away a long
time ago."
He gave them a brief, blunt summary of Elara's past: the death of her
parents, her life under the grudging guardianship of her avaricious uncle and
aunt, a childhood spent yearning for a place to belong.
A heavy silence filled the room. Ingrid's heart ached, and even Arthur's
stern face softened with understanding.
"No wonder she seems so… gentle," Ingrid murmured, her anger
now completely replaced by a surge of protective instinct. A girl without a
strong family behind her learned to be compliant, to survive. That she had
retained any softness at all was a miracle.
"Well," Arthur declared, his voice firm. "That changes
nothing. She's a Winslow and a Thorne now. Our family is her family. Let's see
anyone dare to look down on her again."
"Precisely," Ingrid agreed, a new, steely light in her eyes.
"She can be as reckless as she wants from now on. We'll have her
back."
Silas nodded, a thread of satisfaction weaving through him. This was the
reaction he'd hoped for. "She just graduated and is interning as a
business analyst at Aeternum. We'll hold the wedding once she's settled into
her role. For now, we keep the marriage quiet."
"Alright," Ingrid agreed. "But a gathering with the main
branches of both families is non-negotiable. They need to recognise their new
lady. She needs to be prepared for that." Her look was pointed and
meaningful. "You have to warn her, Silas. She can't walk into a lion's den
thinking it's a petting zoo."
Silas's jaw tightened. He knew she was right. The Thorne elders were
vultures, and the Winslow cousins were sharks. His sweet, delicate wife, who
blushed at a mere glance, needed armour for the battles to come.
It seemed the gentle unveiling of his world would have to begin tonight.
Silas's room dominated the third floor of the old mansion—a sanctuary of
power and history. The air smelled of polished rosewood and quiet luxury.
Elara stepped inside, her eyes wide with awe. The room was a masterpiece
of neoclassical design. Grand, imposing paintings depicting historical scenes
separated the sleeping area, and every piece of furniture was crafted from
dark, fragrant sandalwood.
"Like it?" Silas's voice came from behind her as he swept her
into the room.
"It's incredible," she breathed, her voice barely a whisper.
Since she hadn't planned to stay, she had no clothes. "You'll have
to sleep in my things tonight," he said, his voice a low hum that vibrated
through her.
"Sure," she replied absently, still taking in the grandeur.
As she explored, he began to weave in the context of the room, telling
her about the Thorne legacy, the sprawling family tree with its numerous,
powerful branches, and the weight of the name she now carried. She listened,
intrigued but naive, quietly marvelling at the vastness of it all, completely
unaware of the vipers that lurched in those gilded branches.
When she emerged from the bathroom, shrouded in steam and wearing his
black robe, the atmosphere had shifted.
The robe drowned her, the fabric swallowing her slender frame. She had
tied the belt as tight as it would go, but the neckline still gaped, revealing
the delicate line of her collarbone. The hem pooled around her feet, so long
she had to gather it in her hands to walk.
Under the soft, dim light, Silas was leaning against the headboard,
scrolling through a tablet. His eyes lifted as she approached, and the device
was forgotten.
She looked like a night spirit—innocent yet unknowingly seductive, her
skin glowing against the stark black silk, her damp, dark curls cascading over
her shoulders.
A current of electricity crackled in the air.
Nervous under his intense gaze, Elara fidgeted, clutching the robe
tighter at her chest—an action that only served to draw his burning attention
to the shadowed dip of her neckline.
"Wh-what time are we leaving in the morning?" she asked,
seeking normalcy.
"No rush," he replied, his voice noticeably deeper, rougher.
"Sleep as long as you want." He tossed the tablet aside and lifted
the duvet on her side. "Get in. It's cold."
Her intuition screamed a warning. This was the big, bad wolf inviting
little red riding hood into bed.
Heart hammering against her ribs, she slipped under the covers, the cold
sheets a shock against her skin. She barely had time to settle before the world
tilted.
In a movement too swift to follow, Silas caged her. One powerful arm
braced on the headboard behind her, the other came up to cradle her jaw, his
thumb stroking her cheek. His heat surrounded her, his scent—sandalwood and
dark spice—filling her senses until she was dizzy with it.
The dim light carved the sharp planes of his face, his eyes pools of
liquid onyx burning with an intensity that stole her breath.
"Mrs. Thorne," he murmured, his voice a husky whisper that
feathered against her lips. The heat of it was a brand. "Tonight is our
wedding night."
He leaned in, stopping a breath away from claiming her mouth.
"This time," he asked, the question a formality, a last thread
of restraint, "can I kiss you?"