ngrid's furious reaction was all the confirmation Elara
needed. The Hudson christening tomorrow wouldn't be a simple celebration; it
was a stage being set, and the air already smelled of smoke.
That premonition solidified into cold, hard reality the very
next evening.
The moment Silas stepped through the door, his presence
filled the foyer with a new, electric intensity. Without a word, he took her
hand, leading her to their bedroom with a purpose that made her heart beat a
little faster. There, he presented her with an exquisitely carved wooden box.
"For you," he said, his voice a low rumble.
She lifted the lid. Nestled against dark velvet lay a
pistol.
It gleamed under the lights, a subtle, deadly gold. Small
and exquisitely crafted, it was barely larger than her hand, yet the weight of
it in her palm was a shocking, solid truth.
Her breath hitched. For a long moment, she could only stare,
her fingers trembling, afraid to close around the grip. Slowly, she lifted her
wide, shocked eyes to his.
"You're… giving me a gun?"
"Mhm." His response was calm, factual.
He moved behind her, his larger frame enveloping her. His
warm, sure hand closed over hers, guiding her fingers to mould perfectly to the
weapon's grip. Together, they raised her arm, aligning her stance into a
perfect firing position.
"You wanted to learn self-defence," he murmured, his breath
a warm caress against her ear. "This is the fastest way to level the playing
field. It was custom-made for you. Fits your hand, easy to carry, minimal
recoil. Aim true, and it will keep you safe."
The initial shock began to recede, replaced by a thrilling,
primal surge of excitement. She'd only ever held toy guns. This… this was
power. Real, lethal power, resting in her palm.
But a sliver of doubt remained. "It's beautiful," she
whispered, her voice barely steady. "But I'd actually have to hit something."
Silas let out a soft, rich chuckle. "I never said you were a
prodigy, darling. That's what practice is for."
Heat flooded her cheeks. Of course. What a foolish thing to
say.
"Let's eat first," he said, releasing her. "Then I'll take
you to the range."
"Okay," Elara breathed, her gaze dropping back to the
weapon. Her palm, where she'd gripped it so tightly, still burned. She placed
it back in its case with a reverent care, her mind already racing ahead to the
lesson.
At dinner, she ate with a swift, distracted energy, like a
child who'd just been promised a trip to the fair.
Silas watched her, a helpless, fond smile touching his lips.
Once the twins are born, he thought, I'll effectively be raising three
children.
He'd kept parts of the Winslow estate hidden from her. She
knew Ethan and the other guards lived in the rear building, but she had no idea
that deep within the compound lay a state-of-the-art shooting range.
When he led her inside that night, the sharp, percussive
crack of gunfire greeted them. Seven or eight bodyguards were deep in training.
The moment they spotted Silas with Elara in tow, the shooting ceased. All eyes
turned to them, brimming with undisguised curiosity. The boss brought his
wife to the range? Now?
Silas's sharp gaze instantly landed on two burly men who had
stripped to the waist in the heat. With a single, dismissive flick of his
wrist, he commanded them to leave. The half-dressed men scrambled,
understanding dawning. The others, glancing at the delicate Mrs. Thorne who
kept her eyes politely averted, stifled their laughter and scurried out after
them.
[The next day, a new decree would be posted: henceforth, all
training must be conducted fully clothed. A chorus of groans would echo through
the guard quarters, but none would dare complain. The tale of Mr. Thorne's
fierce, possessive jealousy was born that night.]
For the next hour, Silas was a patient, exacting instructor.
Elara learned the weight, the feel, the mechanics of her new weapon. Loading,
firing, the jolt of recoil—it became familiar, though true accuracy remained a
distant dream. A stubborn fire lit within her; she would have practiced all
night if he'd let her.
Finally, Silas gently removed the protective ear muffs and
goggles. He pried the pistol from her determined grip. "Enough for tonight, my
fierce little wife," he said, guiding her toward the door. "You're a natural,
but if you keep this up, you won't be able to lift your arms tomorrow. And the
little ones won't be pleased with their mama."
Elara's face was flushed with effort. She looked down at her
belly, her voice softening. "Sorry, my darlings. Mommy's done. We're going to
rest now."
Under the cloak of a silvery moon, their two figures—one
tall and protective, one petite and resolute—walked close, a portrait of
intimate tranquility belying the steel they now shared.
The following evening, Elara emerged from her dressing room,
ready for the Hudson christening. She was a vision of understated elegance in a
pale blue jacquard satin dress, its loose waist skimming her figure and falling
to her knees. Her hair was swept into a simple chignon, and her only jewels
were a pair of luminous diamond earrings that caught the light with her every
move.
Silas's dark eyes drank her in. He closed the distance
between them, his hands settling on her waist as he leaned in to brush a kiss
against her cheek. "You take my breath away."
A pleased smile touched her lips. "And you, Mr. Thorne, are
devastatingly handsome." She reached up to straighten his tie, her fingers
lingering for a moment.
His simple white shirt and black trousers should have looked
casual, but on him, they were a statement of supreme power and control. That
handsome face, however, held a chill that warned strangers to keep their
distance.
"Your bag?" he asked, his voice pulling her from her
thoughts.
"On the sofa."
He retrieved her clutch, then walked to the dresser. From
the drawer, he took her golden pistol and placed it inside the bag before
handing it to her.
The gesture was a bucket of cold water on the evening's
glamour.
Her heart stuttered. She took the bag, her gaze locking with
his, searching for the truth. "Silas… what's going to happen tonight?"
He placed his hands on her shoulders, his touch firm, his
eyes holding hers with unwavering intensity. "Steven Cohen has slipped back
into Oakhaven. He's had a falling out with the Valentis. He's desperate, and he
might be reckless enough to show his face tonight." His voice dropped, low and
steady. "It's time to end this. Don't be afraid. I will be right beside you."
He said it with such calm finality, as if stating a simple
fact. But Elara's blood ran cold. Steven Cohen was a rabid dog, unpredictable
and dangerous.
She drew a shaky breath, forcing a brave smile. "I'm not
afraid. Not with you." She managed a weak joke, "I just wish I'd practiced a
bit more last night."
Seeing her fight her fear, his own expression softened. He
grabbed his suit jacket and slipped his arm around her, leading her out. "There
will be plenty of time for practice. Or have you forgotten who was complaining
of a sore hand all morning?"
He'd fussed over her, applying a hot compress, guilt nagging
at him for letting her push so hard.
"…If you'd warned me it would hurt this much, I would've
stopped sooner," she muttered under her breath.
A surprised chuckle escaped him. He glanced down at her, a
spark of pride in his eyes. Her spirit was growing fiercer by the day.
Downstairs, as they joined the others departing for the
Hudson estate, Elara's eyes fell on two expected figures: Julian and Vivian. A
cold understanding settled in her gut.
She knew, with chilling clarity, exactly what role they were
meant to play in Silas's plan tonight. The game was set, and all the pieces
were moving into place.