The soft click of Elara's heels on the marble floor was the only sound
in the vast, silent hallway. Or it was, until another sound joined it—the
steady, deliberate tread of a man following her. She didn't need to turn around
to know it was Silas. His presence was like a change in atmospheric pressure, a
heavy, magnetic force she could feel between her shoulder blades.
She made it to the top of the third-floor staircase before a large, warm
hand gently caught her elbow. She turned, and he was there, his tall, powerful
frame blocking her path like an immovable mountain, all broad shoulders and
narrow waist outlined perfectly in his fitted black shirt.
She tilted her head back to meet his shadowed gaze, her almond-shaped
eyes deceptively calm. "Is there a problem?"
Do you mind? she thought, the sarcastic reply a silent shout in
her head. Some of us are trying to get by.
A faint, dangerous curve played at the corners of his mouth. "We
have plans tonight. You're coming with me."
Elara's thick lashes fluttered; she feigned ignorance, hoping to avoid
whatever den of iniquity he frequented. Seeing right through her, Silas felt a
familiar surge of amusement mixed with frustration. A low, magnetic chuckle
escaped his throat.
He leaned in, his presence enveloping her. One hand settled on her
slender shoulder while the other rose to affectionately pinch her soft,
jade-like earlobe, sending an unwelcome shiver down her spine.
"Don't play dumb, little fox. I know you understood perfectly
well." His voice was a husky whisper meant only for her. "It's time
you met some of my associates. Inevitable, sooner or later. Let them
acknowledge their master and recognise you as Mrs. Thorne."
The spot where his fingers had lingered burned. Elara stared into his
dark, unyielding eyes for several seconds before finding her voice. "And
if I refuse?"
Silas's gaze hardened, his thin lips forming two uncompromising words.
"That's not an option."
Elara shot him a withering glance, her lips pressed into a tight line.
Having leapt into this den of wolves of her own accord, there was clearly no
turning back now. With a resigned sigh, she brushed past him. "Fine. But
I'm changing. This dress is… too innocent for your crowd."
She strode straight back to his bedroom, his soft chuckle following her.
His walk-in wardrobe was already filled with women's clothing, all in her size,
along with shoes, handbags, and accessories. She had no idea when he'd had them
all prepared, and the silent implication—that he'd always known she'd end up
here—was both unsettling and possessive.
Silas followed her in, leaning against the doorframe with an expression
of rapt interest. It had become a recent hobby of his—watching her slip into
the clothes he'd chosen, dressing her up as his perfect, beautiful doll.
Spotting him, Elara immediately grew wary. "Out. I can manage
myself."
He adored the process, but fearing she might truly refuse to go in a
huff, Silas shrugged and conceded with a mock sigh. "As you wish."
Turning to his own section, he selected a dark grey polo shirt and
light-coloured casual trousers. In a few swift, unconcerned movements, he shed
his black shirt, revealing a beautifully sculpted upper body—every muscle
defined and taut under the dim light.
Elara, having just pulled a smoky grey gown from the rack, turned and
froze, the scene imprinting itself on her mind. His long fingers were already
hooked over his waistband, undoing the buttons of his trousers, and the
prominent bulge straining against the front of his dark blue boxers burst
vividly into her field of vision.
Heat flooded her cheeks, and she spun around, her heart hammering
against her ribs.
A soft, deeply amused chuckle followed her. "See something you
like, Mrs. Thorne?" His voice was rich with suggestive undertones.
"It's nothing you don't already know."
"You old rogue," she murmured, the words breathless and
flustered.
Silas, with his keen hearing, was so enraged by the 'old' comment he
laughed. In two strides, he was behind her, pressing himself against her back.
He turned her head, lifted her chin, and captured her lips in a searing kiss
that was all possession and punishment. It was only when Elara's lips felt
swollen and her mind dizzy that she managed to slap his arm weakly. He released
her, his eyes dark with promise.
"Now that's what I call being a rogue," he husked, his
magnetic voice brushing against her kiss-swollen lips, sounding utterly
sensual.
Elara's heartbeat thundered in her ears, a traitorous rhythm she
couldn't control.
Beneath the velvet night sky, a sleek Maybach was parked in the villa's
courtyard. Julian leaned against the passenger door, his eyes lowered and mind
elsewhere. Hearing footsteps approach, he lifted his gaze and froze.
Alongside his father stood Elara.
She wore a sophisticated smoky grey gown that clung to her every curve,
a slender, shimmering belt cinching her waist. Her jet-black curls were loosely
gathered at her nape, a few rebellious strands framing her face and
highlighting the delicate blush on her cheeks. Her lips were a vibrant, perfect
red, like a rose freshly plucked and dewy with morning.
Paired with her bright eyes, her exquisite features radiated a youthful
charm edged with a new, coquettish allure that made his chest ache. Wearing
creamy white flats, she appeared exceptionally petite and endearingly
vulnerable next to Silas's dominating presence.
Silas himself wore a deep grey top and light trousers, exuding an air of
formidable, casual power. The way his hand rested possessively on the small of
her back, the way they stood together—it created a picture of devastating
unity. A sharp, familiar pang of loss and longing shot through Julian's chest.
He forced a neutral expression.
"Dad," he said, his voice even. Then, after a barely
perceptible pause, "...Elara." He pulled the backseat door open for
them, the gesture feeling both automatic and painfully symbolic.
Only after Silas had helped Elara into the plush interior did he climb
into the passenger seat beside his son. Ben took the wheel, and under the cover
of night, the convoy glided away from the Winslow estate.
Their destination was a club named 'Golden Splendour'. The name was
garish, and the exterior was a spectacle of gaudy, neon-lit opulence, reeking
of ostentatious new money. The convoy halted at the entrance, where several
large men in dark suits immediately stepped forward, their demeanour shifting
from bored vigilance to sharp respect.
"Mr. Thorne," one greeted with a sharp nod, immediately
escorting the group inside.
Elara, though intensely curious, kept her eyes firmly fixed ahead, not
daring to glance at the throbbing dance floors or glittering bars they passed.
They ascended to the third floor, halting before a heavy, soundproofed door at
the far end of a secluded corridor.
The lead guard pushed it open respectfully and stepped aside. "Mr.
Thorne, please."
As the door swung open, a wall of noise and smoke hit them. The room was
dim, lit only by pulsing coloured lights, and shrouded in a hazy cloud of cigar
smoke. Four middle-aged men, all exuding an air of hardened wealth, were
puffing away on leather couches. A deafening DJ remix of a pop song blared from
speakers, making the floor vibrate.
Silas didn't move a step beyond the threshold, his expression imperious.
Spotting the visitors, the four men sprang to their feet, their faces
breaking into broad, familiar grins as they surged forward to greet him.
"Boss! It's been ages!"
"Eh? Who's this lovely lady you've brought?"
It was only upon drawing nearer that they discerned the details—Julian
trailing behind, and the stunning young woman standing slightly behind Silas,
his hand firmly enveloping hers.
Before Silas, his face already turning to stone, could speak, a bald man
with two thick gold chains around his neck and a coiled snake tattooed on his
bulging bicep burst out with a booming, good-natured laugh.
"Ha! I see! The boss is truly blessed. Your boy's all grown up and
found himself a beauty! Congratulations, Julian! Give it a bit more time, and
the boss here will be bouncing a grandchild on his knee! Ha ha ha...
ha..."
The final 'ha' died a sudden, strangled death in his throat.
A glacial chill swept through the air as his boss's face turned arctic,
his eyes promising a world of pain. A single glance from Silas could have
sliced steel.
"John," Silas's voice cut through the music, cold and sharp as
a whip crack. "Do you need me to get your eyes checked?"
He lifted their joined hands, making the gesture unmistakable.
"This," he declared, his voice dropping to a deadly, quiet timbre
that silenced the room, "is my wife."
Elara felt a wave of mortification, but she held her composure, her
expression cooling into an elegant mask of neutrality as she fixed her gaze
upon the now ashen-faced bald man.
The private room had been too dim, Silas paused too soon in the doorway.
John had only seen the heads, the generational grouping. He had completely
missed the intimate, possessive clasp of their hands.
The moment Silas raised their intertwined fingers, John's face drained
of all colour. The other three men took a subtle step back, distancing
themselves from his impending doom.
You bloody idiot! John's mind screamed. You're a dead man!
They all knew the boss had brought his new, and shockingly young, wife
back to Oakhaven. They just never, in a million years, imagined he'd ever bring
her to a place like theirs.