Chapter 6: The Reaper's Ballroom (Seraphina's POV)
The gala was a sea of vultures dressed in silk and lies. The air in the Grand Ballroom was thick with the scent of lilies and the underlying rot of corporate greed. I felt the weight of the black silk choker against my throat—the ruby pulse of Silas's 'protection'—like a brand.
Every head turned as we entered. The whispers didn't bother me; it was the way Silas's hand rested on the small of my back, his palm a heavy, scorching anchor that reminded me I wasn't here to dance. I was here to be seen.
"Try to breathe, Seraphina," Silas murmured, his voice a low vibration against my ear. "You look like you're ready to bite the next person who speaks to you."
"Only if they have a higher net worth than you, Silas," I retorted, though my fingers were digging into the silk of my gown. "I'd hate to ruin your reputation by biting down."
We were approached by Marcus Thorne—my cousin, a man who had helped my father gamble away our legacy. He looked at me with a mixture of pity and a hunger that made my skin crawl.
"Seraphina," Marcus said, reaching for my hand. "I heard about the... arrangement. I can help you get away from him. I have a plane waiting at—"
He never finished the sentence.
Silas didn't shout. He didn't make a scene. He simply stepped in front of me, his massive frame eclipsing the light. He grabbed Marcus's hand mid-air, the sound of bone creaking under his grip audible over the string quartet.
"The next time you reach for what is mine, Marcus," Silas said, his voice dropping to a death-rattle that silenced every conversation within ten feet, "I won't just break your hand. I'll liquidate every asset you own until you're begging for scraps on the street where she used to live. Do I make myself clear?"
Marcus went pale, his eyes darting to the ruby on my neck—the mark of the Reaper. "I... I meant no offense, Vane."
"The offense was your existence," Silas rasped, releasing him with a shove that sent Marcus stumbling back.
He turned back to me, his amber eyes burning with an unhinged intensity. He didn't ask if I was okay. He just grabbed my waist and pulled me flush against his chest, his heart thundering a war-drum rhythm I could feel in my own bones.