Page 86 of Filthy Rich Silver Foxes

"Obligated?" he repeats, voice low.

I press my lips together, trying to keep control of the spiral threatening to pull me under.

"I didn’t want to drag you into my mess," I say, each word chosen carefully, precisely. "You didn’t sign up for this."

Silas’s laugh is humorless, bitter enough to make my stomach knot.

"We signed up the second you let us touch you," he says, the words landing with the force of a body blow. "You think we stayed because we felt sorry for you?"

“No," I whisper, but the damage is done. I can feel the rift forming, widening between us.

Max shifts, pulling me closer, his arm tightening around me.

"You’re not a burden, sweetheart," he says quietly. "You’re ours."

I squeeze my eyes shut against the sudden sting behind them. I hate crying. I hate feeling weak. I hate that no matter how careful I am, no matter how many backup plans I draft and redraft in my head, I still end up here: bleeding at the feet of the people I care about.

"I just...I needed time to figure it out," I say finally, my voice small but steady. "I needed to be sure."

Silas’s jaw flexes, but he says nothing.

Max presses a kiss to the top of my head, whispering something soft and indecipherable against my hair.

Evie blows out a breath from across the room, the sound sharp enough to snap the tension.

"Well," she says dryly, "this is a real fun pity party we’re throwing."

Silas glares at her. I laugh, a sharp, startled sound that breaks the tension in my chest just enough to let me breathe again.

"I’m serious," Evie says, uncrossing her arms. "You’re all acting like she murdered a puppy or something. Newsflash: pregnancy isn’t a crime."

The corner of Silas’s mouth twitches, almost against his will.

Max snorts, the sound low and rough against my hair, and for a beat, everything feels almost normal.

Almost.

But it doesn’t last.

Silas isn’t ready to let this go. His smile vanishes as quickly as it appeared, and the air in the room thickens with a tension I can’t laugh away.

He mutters under his breath again, too low for me to understand, but I don’t need to hear every word to understand the intent. I catch enough.

“Silas, baby.”

"He's not taking you," Silas growls. "Or the baby."

The words land heavily between us, heavier than anything Sebastian threw at me earlier tonight. He says it with a conviction that borders on violence. It’s the kind of raw emotion that doesn’t belong in Silas’s usually careful, easygoing demeanor.

Max's arm stiffens around me, but he doesn't intervene. I’m not sure if it’s because he’s worrying about the same thing or if he knows this is something I have to handle.

I carefully peel myself away from Max’s lap, forcing my legs to steady as I cross the small distance between me and Silas.

He’s staring out the window with a posture so tight he may as well be made of stone.

I approach him slowly, carefully, like I would approach a wounded animal. Not because I’m afraid of him—never that—but because I know how deeply he feels. How hard he loves. How much it must cost him to stand there and pretend he isn’t falling apart inside.

I reach up and gently frame his face with my hands, forcing him to look at me.