The air in the room crackled with a tension so thick Elara could feel it
humming against her skin. Silas's gaze was dark, intense, completely focused on
her.
"Can I kiss you?" His voice was a low, gravelly whisper that sent a
shiver straight down her spine.
Elara's heart stuttered, a tingling warmth spreading from her chest to
the very tips of her fingers. Her long eyelashes fluttered shut as if of their
own accord, casting delicate shadows on her flushed cheeks. Her answer wasn't a
word; it was the nervous clutch of her hands in the soft fabric of his robe,
pulling him infinitesimally closer.
That was all the permission he needed.
A dark, hungry heat flared in Silas's eyes. Their breaths mingled, a
deep and shallow rhythm of anticipation. Then his lips were on hers.
They were surprisingly soft, yet cool, carrying the faint, clean scent
of his cologne. He held himself back, his control a palpable force. He didn't
crush her to him but instead traced the seam of her lips with a tantalising
slowness, savouring her, patiently marking her with his essence until she was
dizzy with it.
Elara felt a restless heat coil low in her stomach. "Silas… Silas
Thorne…" she breathed against his mouth, a weak attempt to push at his
chest that moved him not at all.
A low, rough sound escaped him. "Are you going to kiss me or
not?"
The rest of her protest was swallowed whole.
The careful restraint shattered. The kiss turned fierce, possessive. He
was like a man starved, a wild wolf claiming his mate, devouring her with a
desperation that stole the very air from her lungs. His domineering taste
invaded her senses, and her consciousness began to spiral, fuzzy and warm. She
could do nothing but melt into his embrace, a soft sigh escaping her.
Silas felt like he was coming apart. This small taste of sweetness
wasn't nearly enough. It only fuelled a deeper, more primal hunger.
Elara, floating in a daze, felt a calloused, hot palm slide beneath the
hem of her top, skimming the sensitive skin of her waist. The touch jolted her
back to reality.
She grabbed his wrist, her fingers tight. "Silas—wait."
But he was lost to the sensation, his touch growing more insistent,
seeking.
"No…" she gasped, turning her head to break the devastating
kiss. "We can't… the baby. Remember the baby."
Silas froze as if doused in ice water. His entire body went rigid. He
pulled back, his breath coming in ragged pants, and rested his forehead against
hers. The struggle for control was raw on his face.
"I'm sorry," he rasped, his voice thick with regret and
unspent desire. "Did I scare you?"
"…A little," she admitted softly, her own voice trembling. She
couldn't meet his eyes, her gaze instead falling to where her hands had pulled
his robe open, revealing a tantalising glimpse of his taut, muscular chest. The
sheer masculinity of him made her blood sing.
"The doctor said… the first three months…" she whispered, the
reminder feeling both necessary and unbearably awkward.
A wry, helpless smile touched his lips. "I know. It was me who lost
my head." He let out a slow breath, a silent chastisement. A
thirty-seven-year-old man, brought to his knees by a taste of his wife. He was
acting like a damn teenager.
He cupped her face, his thumbs stroking her heated cheeks. Her eyes were
wide, shimmering with a mix of lingering passion and slight alarm. The sight
made his throat tighten all over again. He couldn't help himself; he dipped his
head and captured her lips in one more firm, claiming kiss before pulling away.
He was met with her wide, slightly annoyed eyes and couldn't stop a low
chuckle from rumbling in his chest. "Don't look at me like that. It's your
fault for being so damn tempting."
Elara's blush deepened. "You insufferable man." Any trace of
the cold, untouchable CEO was gone, replaced by this utterly charming rogue.
Silas's chest vibrated with another deep, magnetic laugh. She swatted at
his hand half-heartedly, but he just caught it, lacing his fingers with hers
before drawing her securely back into his arms. He pulled the duvet up around
them, creating a warm, intimate cocoon.
After a moment of comfortable silence, he spoke, his tone casual.
"What did Annabelle want to talk to you about tonight?"
Elara, still catching her breath from his emotional whiplash, took a
second to answer. "She apologised. Properly. Said you read her the riot
act for lying to me before."
Annabelle. The girl was spiteful but had a good heart underneath it all.
Her apology had been genuine. She'd explained that with the parade of women who
had previously flocked to Silas in Oakhaven, her little "I'm his
daughter" act had been a reliable way to scare them off. She'd just placed
Elara in the same category.
A sliver of an old, familiar insecurity pricked at Elara's heart. This
man was over a decade older than her. His life experience was vast. With his
wealth and status… how could there not have been others?
"Well, good. She can be a menace, but she listens when you call her
on it. Her heart's in the right place," Silas said, a faint note of
unmistakable affection in his voice. He hadn't noticed her shifting mood.
Elara heard it, though. The doting uncle beneath the stern exterior. She
thought coldly that he would probably love their children just as fiercely.
He'd promised her fidelity. He'd promised to be a good father. That was what
this marriage was for.
So, Elara, she chastised herself, what are you doing? Even if there were
others, that was before you. Before this promise. He is here now, with you.
She took a steadying breath and deliberately changed the subject.
"Why does your aunt use her maiden name, Winslow? And your uncle took it
too when they married? I'd have thought old families were strict about that
sort of thing."
Silas adjusted his hold on her. "They usually are. But Ingrid
negotiated terms when she married Arthur. He was… exceptionally persuasive. And
deeply in love. Taking her name was a condition he was happy to meet."
Elara understood instantly. Ingrid wasn't just any heiress; she was the
last direct descendant of the Winslow line, with a legacy and fortune to
preserve. It made perfect sense.
"Annabelle is only eleven," Elara mused, doing the math.
"So your aunt had her when she was…"
"Forty-eight," Silas finished, his tone sobering.
"Everyone advised against it. Me included. But she's the most stubborn
woman alive. She was determined. Arthur and I didn't breathe easily for eight
straight months." The memory of that fear was still etched on his face.
Hearing it, Elara's own hand drifted to her still-flat stomach. She was
young and already found pregnancy taxing. The thought of going through it at
forty-eight was daunting.
Sensing her pensiveness, Silas shifted, propping himself up on an elbow
to look down at her. "Elara, you know my life isn't here in Ashbourne
permanently. Have you thought about what it would be like to live somewhere
else?"
Her eyes focused on his. "Oakhaven?"
"Hmm," he nodded, gently tightening the lapel of her robe
where it had gaped open. "The Winslow roots are there. It's where my work
is, where the family's power is centred. The Thornes… Julian will take the
reins when he's ready. But my place is there."
He was serious. If she didn't go with him, it would mean a long-distance
marriage. Years of separation. She could handle it, but the children couldn't.
A father who was just a occasional visitor wasn't what she wanted for them. It
would defeat the entire purpose of their arrangement.
"So when are you planning to go back?" she asked, her voice
calm. "Or more importantly, how do you plan to arrange me?"
A small smile touched his lips, pleased she was thinking pragmatically.
"After the first trimester. When the pregnancy is more stable. You'll need
more care, and with Ingrid and the full staff there, I'll feel better on the
days I have to travel for business."
"As for your career," he continued, "You can transfer
your internship to Aeternum's headquarters in Oakhaven. Or put it on hold—the
position will be waiting for you whenever you want it. That's your
decision." He paused, his gaze intense. "And if tutoring is your
passion, you don't need to do it for income. Start a school. The Winslow
Foundation has a college. The resources and network are yours for the
taking."
Elara was truly speechless. He hadn't just thought about it; he had
meticulously planned her future, offering her opportunities she'd never dreamed
of, all while ensuring her and their children's security.
It was overwhelmingly generous. And she could find no logical reason to
refuse.
"Okay," she said, her voice soft but sure as she met his deep,
waiting gaze. "But next time, discuss it with me first? Ingrid asked when
you were bringing me home, and I was completely in the dark."
A look of chagrin crossed his features. "You're right. That was my
mistake. It won't happen again." The seriousness melted into a sly, smouldering
look. "How would you like to punish me to even the score?"
Elara raised an eyebrow, a slow smile playing on her kiss-swollen lips.
"Mr. Thorne, I'm starting to think you have a masochistic streak."
The next second, a rich, deep laugh burst from him. It started low in
his chest and grew, a sound of pure, unadulterated joy that filled the room,
shaking his shoulders and lighting up his entire face.
The hallway was steeped in a heavy, silent gloom, broken only by the
weak glow of a few wall sconces. Leaned against the wall, shrouded in shadow,
was a figure. His head was tilted back, resting against the cool plaster, a
single cigarette dangling from his lips. The tip glowed a fierce, angry red in
the semi-darkness with every sharp, desperate drag he took.
At his feet, a small constellation of destruction littered the polished
floor—four, five, maybe more cigarette butts, each one crushed under the heel
of his shoe as if he could stamp out the turmoil raging inside him.
How long had he been standing there? Minutes? Hours? Time had lost all
meaning. His brain had long since gone numb, a blessed relief from the painful,
twisting thoughts. The sound of soft laughter from behind the door—her
laughter, a sound he'd once dreamed of earning—echoed in his ears, each peal a
fresh cut.
He was so lost in the toxic haze, his legs stiff and frozen, that he
never heard the soft click of the lock.
The door swung open suddenly, flooding the dim hallway with a slice of
warm, intimate light from the room within—and exposing him, standing there in
the shadows, a ghost haunting his own home.