Chapter 8: The Weight of the Crown (Seraphina's POV)
The ride back to the estate was a tomb of velvet and shadows. The only sound was the rhythmic thrum of the rain against the Maybach's roof and the jagged, uneven beat of my heart. Silas didn't look at me. He sat in the darkness, a statue of cold fury and expensive wool, his profile etched against the passing streetlights like a blade.
He hadn't let go of my hand since we left the terrace. His grip wasn't painful, but it was absolute. It was the grip of a man who had waited three years to hold his prize and had no intention of ever opening his palm.
"You've been watching me for three years?" I whispered, my voice finally finding its way through the tight knot in my throat. "Every gala? Every event? You were there?"
Silas didn't turn his head. "In the shadows, Seraphina. Where you never bother to look. I saw the way you smiled at men you hated. I saw the way you masked your boredom with that sharp, beautiful tongue of yours. I saw everything."
"And you decided the best way to introduce yourself was to buy me?" I felt a spark of the old defiance, but it was flickering, drowned by the sheer gravity of his obsession. "You didn't want a conversation. You wanted a cage."
The car pulled to a halt. We weren't at the front doors. We were at the private entrance to the East Wing. Silas finally turned to me, his amber eyes burning with a light that made the oxygen in the car feel thin.
"I didn't want a conversation because you would have lied to me," he rasped, his hand moving from my wrist to the back of my neck, his thumb grazing the silk of the choker. "I wanted the truth of you. And I can only find that here. In my house. Under my rules."
He stepped out and pulled me with him. The private elevator ride was a blur of silver and rising heat. When the doors opened directly into his master suite, the air changed. It smelled of cedarwood, vintage scotch, and a dark, male power that made my knees weak.
He let go of me and walked to the sideboard, pouring himself a drink. He didn't offer me one.
"Strip," he said, his back to me.
The word hit me like a physical blow. I stood in the center of the plush rug, my breath hitching. "Excuse me?"
Silas turned, the crystal glass in his hand reflecting the moonlight. He looked at me with a terrifyingly calm intensity. "The dress was part of the bid. The diamonds were part of the bid. I want to see what I bought without the packaging, Seraphina. Or did you think I was paying for the navy silk?"
"I am not a transaction, Silas," I snapped, my voice trembling even as I tried to hold my ground. "You want to see me? Look at me. Look at the woman who is currently calculating exactly how many years it will take to watch your empire burn."
Silas set the glass down with a soft clink that sounded like a gunshot in the quiet room. He crossed the space between us in three strides, his presence looming over me like a storm cloud.
"I've seen the woman who wants to burn my empire," he whispered, his hand snaking around my waist to pull me flush against his hard, unyielding frame. "Now I want to see the woman who has been dreaming of this touch since I broke Marcus's hand on that terrace. The one whose pulse is currently trying to beat its way out of her throat because she knows... she finally knows... that I am the only man who can handle her fire."
He reached behind me, his fingers finding the hidden zipper of the gown. The sound of the silk sliding down was the loudest thing in the world.
"I'm going to ruin you, Seraphina," he growled against my lips. "And you're going to thank me for it."