A dark seed, once planted in the deepest crevices of Julian's soul, had
now sprouted into a full-grown monster. It coiled around his heart, whispering
poisonous thoughts he could no longer ignore.
His eyes, fixed on some unseen point, glittered with a frenzied,
unhinged light.
What a pathetic fool he had been. All those times she was within his
reach, and he had done nothing. He'd been so patient, so restrained, believing
he could win her with some twisted sense of honour. He'd kept his hands to
himself when every instinct had screamed to take her, to claim her, to make her
his in the most primal way possible.
He should have touched her. He should have seized her the moment he had
the chance. He should have felt her skin under his fingers and learned the
sound of her breath catching in fear… or in pleasure. It didn't matter which.
He regretted it all.
But no more.
When the day finally came—and it would come—he wouldn't hesitate. He
would savour every last second. The taste of victory, and of her, would be
exquisitely sweet.
The Winslow mansion was silent, bathed in the deep indigo of a late
night well past ten. Silas, leaning slightly on Ben, carried the faint, warm
scent of expensive whiskey. Elara hovered close, her brow furrowed with concern
as they guided him inside.
From the doorway, Julian watched her attentive hands, her worried gaze
fixed on his father. A cold sneer twisted his lips. Without a word, he turned
on his heel and stalked off into the shadows, heading toward the guest villa.
Inside the master suite, Ben helped Silas to the edge of the bed. With a
barely perceptible wave from his boss, Ben took the hint.
"Mrs. Thorne, if you require any assistance, the butler is just a
call away," he said, offering a respectful nod before making a swift and
tactful exit.
Elara murmured her thanks and closed the door, turning just in time to
see Silas rise. With one fluid, powerful motion, he grabbed the hem of his
shirt and pulled it over his head, revealing the sculpted, sun-kissed muscles
of his torso and back. The air in the room suddenly felt thick, charged with an
overwhelming, primal heat.
Elara blinked, her breath catching. He didn't stop there, his fingers
moving to the buckle of his belt, clearly intent on shedding every last stitch
before a shower.
"Wait!" she cried, darting forward to place a cool hand on his
warm arm. "You can't shower right after drinking. It's not good for
you."
"Hmm?" The touch seemed to soothe him. A low, appreciative
sound rumbled in his chest. His dark, intoxicated eyes found hers, a wicked
smirk playing on his lips. "If I don't shower, will you even let me in
this bed? Won't you find me… repulsive?"
His voice was a husky, suggestive drawl that made her toes curl.
Elara faltered, her dilemma clear on her expressive face. The idea of
him not bathing was unthinkable, but the risk of him passing out in a steamy
shower was worse.
Her gaze flickered to the large, plush sofa in the corner, then back to
him, her almond eyes wide with a silent question.
Silas actually laughed, a rich, deep sound. "You'd really make your
husband sleep on the couch? So cruel."
"Well, if I let you in and my morning sickness makes me vomit all
over you at 3 a.m., would you want to strangle me?" she retorted, tilting
her head and fluttering her lashes with faux innocence.
Silas was stunned for a second before a broader grin spread across his
face. In a flash, he closed the distance between them. One hand cradled the
back of her head, and he captured her lips in a deep, claiming kiss that tasted
of whiskey and pure want.
When he finally pulled back, they were both breathless.
"Strangulation is the last thing on my mind, my love," he murmured,
his voice a rough caress against her mouth. "I'd kiss you to death
first."
A furious blush heated Elara's cheeks. Where was the stern,
unapproachable man I married? He'd been completely replaced by this… this
seductive devil!
The look in her eyes—a mix of admonishment and unconscious allure—was
the final spark to the tinderbox of his restraint. The desire he'd been so
carefully banked for weeks roared to life.
"You… you go sit down. I'll take a shower first," she
stammered, grabbing her nightgown and all but fleeing into the bathroom.
Silas watched her go, the gentle sway of her hips etching itself into
his mind. His Adam's apple bobbed. The alcohol in his system was nothing
compared to the fire she'd just ignited.
Under the spray of the shower, warm water cascaded over Elara's skin.
She was lost in thought, replaying the evening's events—the four powerful
Capos, the undeniable aura of danger and respect that surrounded Silas. For the
first time, she felt a burning curiosity about the hidden world he commanded.
So lost was she, that she didn't hear the bathroom door open. Didn't
register the presence behind her until a solid, warm, and very naked chest
pressed against her back.
A scream caught in her throat, stifled by a large, familiar hand.
"Shhh, it's just me," Silas's voice was a low, intoxicating
whisper against her ear, sending shivers that vibrated down to her very core.
"Help me wash."
"No! Get out! Right now!" she protested, her face flaming. She
tried to turn and push against his immovable chest, but he easily caught her
wrists.
"Don't be afraid," he coaxed, his voice a seductive melody.
"We're a couple. This is normal. This is good."
"I've been drinking," he continued, his lips brushing her
earlobe. "Aren't you worried I'll slip and fall if I'm in here alone?
Watch over me. Help me. It'll put your mind at ease, won't it?"
His reasoning was utterly absurd and completely irresistible. Her
willpower was melting under the steam and his touch.
He saw her resistance crumbling, saw the shy flush on her cheeks. The
darkness in his eyes deepened into something predatory. He turned her in his
arms and captured her lips again, kissing her with a raw, unrestrained passion
that left her dizzy and clinging to him for support.
Soon, her trembling, mortified whisper echoed off the tiled walls.
"No... I can't... I won't..."
Having restrained himself for so long, Silas was not to be denied. His
voice grew husky with need and patience. "It's easy, baby. Let me teach
you. Don't be afraid. It'll be over soon…"
Later, tucked dry and warm into the centre of their large bed, Elara
kept her eyes tightly shut. Her hands felt like they were on fire. Never again,
she vowed silently. I am an idiot to trust that man.
Silas, his hair still damp, looked down at her with a gaze of satiated
tenderness. He leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to her forehead.
"I'm sorry I put you through that, my darling," he murmured,
genuine contrition in his voice. "Next time, I'll do it myself."
Elara pressed her lips together, refusing to acknowledge him.
"Forgive me," he whispered, tracing a finger down her cheek.
"I'd been holding back for so long. A man has needs, and with the baby…
this was the only way."
As his words grew bolder, Elara rolled over and yanked the duvet over
her head. "I warn you," her muffled voice came from beneath the
covers, "there absolutely will not be a next time."
A slow, victorious smile spread across Silas's face. "Very
well," he agreed easily.
That night, the man who had finally found a measure of release slept
more soundly than he had in weeks, pulling his wife close and holding her tight
against his heart.
The next morning, the family gathered for breakfast at Ingrid and
Arthur's villa. The atmosphere was warm, filled with the clinking of cutlery
and soft chatter.
Midway through the meal, Silas's phone buzzed insistently. He glanced at
the screen, and his easy expression hardened. Answering, he listened as Ethan's
grave voice delivered the news.
"Boss, it's Dr. Samir. He's dead. Took his own life."
Silas's hand stilled around his coffee cup. "When?" he asked,
his voice dangerously low.
"About two hours ago," Ethan replied, his tone heavy. "He
retired and relocated a year ago; it took time to find him. I spoke with him
just yesterday. When I went back this morning for follow-up questions… this is
what I found."
"Keep the scene contained. Monitor everything," Silas ordered,
his mind already racing. "Send me your coordinates. I'll be there
soon."
"Understood, Boss."
He ended the call and looked up to find Ingrid's sharp eyes on him from
across the table. "Trouble?" she asked, instantly reading the tension
in his posture.
"Something that needs my personal attention," he replied, his
tone leaving no room for inquiry.
Seeing his resolve, Ingrid simply frowned and nodded, returning to her
food.
Hearing he was leaving, Elara paused, a piece of fruit halfway to her
lips.
Silas reached over and placed a slice of golden French toast on her
plate. "I'll explain everything after breakfast," he said softly, his
tone for her entirely different from the one he'd used with his aunt.
After the meal, while arranging for his private jet, Silas guided Elara
back to their villa. In the quiet of their bedroom, he sat her down on the sofa
and pulled out his wallet.
He placed two cards in her palm—one sleek black, the other shimmering
platinum. "A debit card and a credit card. Unlimited funds. The PINs are
your birthdays," he said, his voice gentle but firm. "While I'm gone,
take Aunt Ingrid and Annabelle shopping. Buy anything you want. Anything at
all."
"If you need anything, anything at all, go to them. Or have
Annabelle stay with you at night. I'll call you every day…"
Elara looked down at the powerful pieces of plastic, then back up at
him, her eyes searching his. "Is this… about Italy? Is it business?"
"No," he said, holding her gaze. The walls he kept so high for
everyone else were down for her. "The lead Ethan was following… it's gone
cold in the worst way. This is about the… the fertility rumour. I have to go. I
need to end this, for us, once and for all."