The master bedroom on the third floor was a sanctuary of
cool, masculine tones—deep greys, stark blacks, and polished chrome. It was a
space that screamed Silas Thorne: powerful, imposing, and utterly controlled.
He had carried her in here without a word, his grip
unyielding, as if she were a prize he'd nearly lost and was now securing in his
fortress. The moment the car had stopped, he'd scooped her up, ignoring a
stunned Ingrid and Annabelle at the door, his face a thundercloud. Elara had
buried her face in his shoulder, equal parts terrified and mortified.
Now, as her feet finally touched the plush rug, the
embarrassment curdled into anger. She shoved against his chest, her voice laced
with a frost she didn't know she possessed. "Put. Me. Down."
Worrying about her straining herself, Silas carefully set
her beside the grand, four-poster bed. But instead of stepping back, he did
something that stole the breath from her lungs.
He dropped to one knee.
One strong arm encircled her waist, anchoring her, while his
other hand captured hers. His dark eyes, usually so unreadable, were filled
with a stark, raw remorse as he looked up at her.
"Don't be angry, Elly," he murmured, the endearment a soft
contrast to his gravelly voice. "The fault was mine. My words were harsh… and
unforgivable."
The moment she'd whispered her regret, her desire to flee
back to the simple safety of Ashbourne, a primal, possessive fear had lanced
through him. He'd reacted not as a husband, but as a warlord accustomed to
instant obedience.
But she wasn't a soldier. She was his wife. A young woman
who had just been thrown into the deep end of his dangerous world without a
life vest. He should have coaxed her, reassured her—not demanded her
capitulation.
Elara's gaze dropped to their joined hands. The sight of
this powerful man on his knees for her should have melted her. Instead, it fuelled
her frustration. She wrenched her hand from his.
"Why would I be angry?" she retorted, her tone brittle. "You
were perfectly clear. 'You marry the man, you marry his life.' I'm just the new
recruit, learning to follow orders. I wouldn't dare be angry with my commanding
officer."
A wry, almost pained smile touched his lips. He was being
expertly hoisted with his own petard.
"Elara," he breathed her name like a prayer, recapturing her
hands and holding them firmly, forcing her to feel the sincerity in his touch.
"I never meant to hide this from you. I planned to bring you here, let you
settle in, and you then explain my world… piece by piece. I never expected
Steven to show his face so soon. I never meant for you to be frightened by a
mishap."
"Frightened?" A hollow laugh escaped her. "You call a
near-miss with a loaded gun a 'mishap'? What constitutes a real crisis in your
world, Silas? A full-blown car chase? Trading bullets on the freeway?"
Her voice began to shake, the adrenaline of the encounter
finally crashing down. "If this is a normal Tuesday for you, how can you expect
me to just… accept it? All I can think about is what happens next time! What if
someone uses me to get to you? What if they–?" She couldn't even finish the
thought, a violent shudder running in through her.
Silas's heart clenched. He saw the genuine terror in her
wide, glassy eyes and felt a surge of self-loathing. He drew a slow breath, his
thumb stroking calming circles on her wrist.
"It is not as dire as your imagination is painting it, my
love," he said, his voice low and steady, willing her to believe him. "The Thorne
and Winslow families are not cartels. We are legitimate. Our methods are…
sharper than most, but we are law-abiding citizens. Usually, no one is foolish
enough to provoke us openly."
He paused, the gravity in his tone deepening. "Steven Cohen…
is the exception."
"The exception?" The words tumbled out, sharp and accusing,
before she could stop them. "Because he's your son's uncle? Your beloved
brother-in-law?"
The air in the room turned to ice.
Silas went very still. Then, slowly, he rose to his full
height, his shadow enveloping her once more. She had to tilt her head back to
meet his gaze, a flicker of defiance in her own.
"He is Julian's uncle," Silas confirmed, his voice
dangerously quiet. "But he is not, and never has been, my brother-in-law."
He took a step closer, his intense gaze pinning her in
place. "Apart from you, I have never married. There has been no other wife.
You. Are. The. Only. One."
Each word was a hammer blow, meant to shatter her
assumptions. Confusion swirled in Elara's almond-shaped eyes. Her brow furrowed
as she tried to reconcile his words with the living, breathing proof of his
past that was Julian.
A new, more shocking thought occurred to her. Her eyes
widened slightly.
"So…" she began, her voice barely a whisper. "Julian was
conceived in the heat of youthful passion, then?"
The phrase hung in the air between them—youthful passion. It
sounded so trivial, so… careless. A moment of reckless abandon that resulted in
a child, a lifetime of responsibility, and a vengeful madman for an uncle.
Silas watched the play of emotions on her face—the judgment,
the curiosity, the faint trace of pity. He could see the story she was writing
in her mind. A slow, dark smile touched his lips, but it didn't reach his eyes.
"I suppose you could call it that," he said, his voice a low
hum that vibrated deep in her bones. "But not in the way you are imagining."
The way he said it—the weight, the shadow that passed behind
his eyes—hinted at a story far more complex and darker than a simple fling. It
was a door he was deliberately closing, a part of his history he was not yet
willing to open for her.
And she found she didn't want to force it. The details of
his past with another woman were a poison she had no desire to drink. And
Julian's deranged uncle? That was a tangled web she wasn't sure she ever wanted
to be entangled in.
Silas was a vortex, pulling her deeper into a world of
danger and dark secrets. To step forward was to be consumed entirely. But to
step back…?
She drew a sharp breath, squaring her shoulders with a
resolve she didn't entirely feel. "Move. I'm going downstairs."
She avoided his eyes, her long lashes casting shadows on her
cheeks, effectively shutting him out. Silas watched her, frustration and
concern warring within him. He reached for her shoulder.
"I'll come with you."
Elara sidestepped his touch as if burned. "Don't," she
warned, finally meeting his gaze. "This isn't over. I'm only going down because
it's rude to hide from Ingrid and Annabelle. Unlike some, I have manners."
He had hauled her up here without a care for appearances;
she would not reciprocate the discourtesy.
A muscle feathered in Silas's jaw. He withdrew his hand, his
fingers instinctively twisting the black onyx ring on his pinkie. A silent,
exasperated thought echoed in his mind: Who the hell said young wives were easy
to placate?
Elara paused at the top of the grand staircase, her hand
resting on the cool banister. Below, just beginning his ascent, was Julian.
Dressed in a simple white shirt and black trousers, he looked every bit the
refined heir, a stark contrast to the chaos his uncle represented.
Their eyes met. For a heartbeat, there was only silent
understanding—and a shared, unspoken tension from the confrontation at the
gates. Elara was the first to look away.
A moment later, a familiar, solid presence was at her back.
Silas's arm snaked around her waist, pulling her gently against him, his crisp,
clean scent enveloping her once more. A united front.
"Mom. Dad." Julian's voice was calm, devoid of any surprise.
He stopped his ascent and moved to the side of the stairs, the perfect picture
of respect. "We have guests. Ingrid sent me to fetch you."
"Mm," Silas acknowledged, his voice back to its usual
commanding tone.
He guided Elara down the steps. As they drew level with
Julian, Silas stopped. The air tightened. His piercing gaze landed on his son,
and he asked a question that seemed to come from nowhere, yet was exactly where
everything was headed.
"Julian. What are your intentions regarding the child Vivian
Grays is carrying?"
Julian didn't flinch. If he was surprised by the bluntness
of the question, he didn't show it. Elara held her breath, glancing between the
two most powerful men in her new life.
After a beat of heavy silence, Julian lifted his chin, his
own gaze steady and resolute as it met his father's.
"I was actually coming to discuss that with you, Father."
His voice was clear, accepting the weight of the moment. "I made a mistake. I
wronged an innocent woman. To compound one failure with another—to abandon my
own child—would be unforgivable. The baby is innocent. The responsibility is
mine."
He took a deep breath, his next words ringing with a
finality that made Elara's heart ache for reasons she couldn't name. "With your
permission, I intend to marry Vivian. To give my child a name and a family. It
is the only duty I have left to fulfil."
The only duty I have left to fulfil.
The words hung in the opulent hallway, heavy with unspoken
history and a sacrifice that sounded less like a choice and more like a
sentence.