The engine of the vintage Mustang roared like a wounded beast, tearing through the slick streets of London. Inside, the silence was louder than the rain hammering against the roof.
Elena sat in the passenger seat, her knees pulled up to her chest, shivering violently. The adrenaline that had fueled her sprint from the opera house was fading, replaced by a bone-deep cold. She clutched the silver clutch bag so tightly her knuckles were white.
She stole a glance at the man beside her. Silas.
In the strobing streetlights, he looked even more dangerous than he had outside the theater. His hands gripped the steering wheel with casual, lethal competence. He drove aggressively, weaving through traffic, checking the rearview mirror every six seconds. His jaw was set tight, a muscle ticking rhythmically beneath the rough stubble.
"You're bleeding," Elena whispered, her voice sounding foreign to her own ears.
Silas didn't look at her. "Not my blood."
Elena felt bile rise in her throat. She looked down at his white dress shirt, open at the collar. There was a smear of crimson on the cuff. Not his blood.
"Where are we going?" she asked, trying to keep the tremor out of her voice.
"Somewhere Marcus won't look for at least four hours," Silas replied. His voice was a low gravel, vibrating through the small space of the car. "After that, we keep moving."
"He's your brother," Elena said, the words tasting like ash. "You said he's your brother."
Silas slammed on the brakes, swerving the car into a narrow, unlit alleyway behind an abandoned industrial complex. The car skidded to a halt on the wet cobblestones. He killed the engine, plunging them into darkness.
He turned to her slowly. The lack of light made his eyes look black.
"Half-brother," Silas corrected, his tone devoid of emotion. "And sharing blood doesn't make you family, Elena. It just makes you a liability."
He opened his door and stepped out into the pouring rain. "Get out. We walk from here."
Elena hesitated. Outside was the cold, the dark, and a man she didn't know. Inside the car, it was dry. But looking at Silas's broad back as he scanned the rooftops for snipers, she realized she had no choice. Marcus would kill her for the drive. Silas kept her alive. It was a simple, terrifying equation.
She stepped out. The rain soaked her silk dress instantly, plastering it to her skin like a second layer. She stumbled in her heels on the uneven ground.
Silas was there in an instant. He didn't ask; he simply scooped her up into his arms.
"Put me down!" Elena gasped, her hands instinctively grabbing his shoulders for balance. He felt like solid rock beneath the wet coat.
"You're slow in those shoes," he muttered, kicking the alley door open with his boot. "I don't do slow."
He carried her up three flights of concrete stairs. Elena could feel the heat of his body seeping into hers, a stark contrast to the freezing rain. She could smell him—rain, leather, and that unique, masculine scent that made her head swim. Being this close to him felt illicit. It felt dangerous.
He kicked open a heavy steel door at the top of the landing and walked into a wide, open-plan loft. It was sparse—a leather couch, a massive bed in the corner, a wall of monitors, and a punching bag hanging from a ceiling beam. It didn't look like a home; it looked like a bunker.
He dropped her onto the leather couch. Elena bounced slightly, pushing her wet hair out of her eyes.
Silas locked the door, sliding three heavy deadbolts into place. Then, he turned to face her. He began to unbutton his coat, shrugging it off and tossing it onto a chair. Then he started on the buttons of his shirt.
Elena's eyes widened. "What do you think you're doing?"
"I'm getting out of wet clothes before I get pneumonia," Silas said calmly, peeling the shirt off.
Elena's breath hitched. His torso was a masterpiece of violence. Muscles coiled under scarred skin. A long, jagged scar ran from his left shoulder down to his hip, a brutal souvenir of a past life. He was terrifyingly fit, powerful, and raw.
He threw the shirt aside and looked at her. His gaze raked over her body, lingering on the way the wet silk dress clung to her curves, leaving absolutely nothing to the imagination. The air in the room suddenly felt heavy, charged with static electricity.
"You need to change," he said, his voice dropping an octave.
"I don't have anything to wear," Elena snapped, crossing her arms over her chest to shield herself from his intense stare.
Silas walked over to a dresser and pulled out a black t-shirt and a pair of gray sweatpants. He tossed them at her.
"Bathroom is through there. Shower. Warm up. If you get sick, you slow me down."
Elena grabbed the clothes and bolted for the bathroom. She locked the door and leaned against it, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. She stripped off the ruined dress, stepping into the hot spray of the shower. She scrubbed her skin until it was red, trying to wash away the fear, trying to wash away the feeling of Silas's hands on her waist from back at the opera house.
When she came out, wearing his clothes, she felt small. The t-shirt hung off one shoulder, reaching her mid-thigh. The sweatpants were too long, so she abandoned them, just wearing the shirt.
She walked back into the main room. Silas was sitting at the wall of monitors, typing furiously. He was shirtless, wearing only dark tactical pants.
He spun around in his chair as she entered. He stopped typing.
His eyes traveled up her bare legs, over the curve of her hips hidden beneath his shirt, and landed on her face. For a moment, the cold assassin mask slipped, and Elena saw something else in his eyes. Hunger. Dark, unrestrained hunger.
"The drive," Silas said, extending his hand. "Give it to me."
"No," Elena said, her voice shaking but defiant. She clutched the USB drive in her fist. "This is my insurance. If I give it to you, you have no reason to keep me alive."
Silas stood up. He moved with the silent grace of a predator. He crossed the room in three strides, stopping inches from her. He towered over her, his shadow engulfing her.
"You think that is what keeps you alive?" He laughed, a dark, humorless sound. "Elena, that drive is a death warrant. Marcus has put a five-million-pound bounty on your head in the last twenty minutes. Every hitman in London is looking for a woman in a green silk dress."
He reached out, his rough fingers brushing her jawline, tilting her chin up. Her breath hitched.
"I'm the only thing standing between you and a shallow grave," he whispered. "Trust me."
"Why should I?" she challenged, though her knees felt weak. "You're a criminal. You're his brother."
"I am the monster they send to kill other monsters," Silas murmured, leaning closer. His lips were inches from hers. She could feel his warm breath on her mouth. "And right now, I'm the only one who doesn't want to kill you."
"What do you want?" Elena breathed, unable to look away from his steel-gray eyes.
Silas's gaze dropped to her lips, then back to her eyes. The tension was unbearable, a pulled rubber band waiting to snap.
"I want to ruin you," he admitted, his voice a low growl that vibrated in her chest. "But I have to save you first."
He gently pried her fingers open and took the drive. His fingers lingered on her palm for a second too long. The contact sent a jolt of electricity up her arm.
He stepped back, breaking the spell. "Get some sleep, Elena. You take the bed. I'll take the couch."
"I can't sleep," she said.
"Try," Silas commanded, walking back to his computers. "Because tomorrow, we hunt."
Elena climbed into the massive bed, pulling the duvet up to her chin. It smelled like him—sandalwood and musk. She watched him from across the room, the blue light of the screens illuminating the scars on his back.
She realized with a terrifying jolt that she wasn't just afraid of Marcus finding her. She was afraid of what was happening in this room. She was falling into the orbit of a dangerous man, and for the first time in her life, she didn't want to run away.