Page 87 of Filthy Rich Silver Foxes

At first, he resists, stubbornly keeping his gaze locked somewhere over my shoulder. But I stay patient, waiting him out, until finally—finally—his stormy eyes meet mine.

"No one is taking me from you," I say quietly, each word measured and deliberate. "Not Sebastian. Not anyone. I’m not going anywhere, Silas."

His jaw tics under my fingers, the muscles straining as he tries to hold back whatever ugly, broken thing is clawing its way up his throat.

I don’t let go. I don’t let him hide.

"You’re stuck with me," I add, softening the words just slightly, offering him a small, exhausted smile.

For a heartbeat, something flickers in his eyes. Hope, maybe. Fear. A lethal combination of both.

But it’s not enough.

His hands come up, gripping my wrists where they rest against his jaw, and he drags in a ragged breath.

"He had you first," he says, voice rough and splintered. "You admitted it. You had a connection."

The words are broken. Vulnerable in a way that guts me.

I nod, because lying would be crueler than the truth. "I did."

He flinches, and I can feel it reverberate through him, a shudder that works its way into my bones.

"But I have a connection with you, too," I continue, my voice steady even as my heart tries to tear itself apart in my chest. "And with Max. From the start. It was different, but it was real. Itisreal."

Silas shakes his head once, a small, desperate motion, but I tighten my grip on him, refusing to let him look away again.

"It doesn’t change just because he’s back," I whisper. "It doesn’t erase everything we built. Everything we are."

The words seem to break something inside him. His grip on my wrists loosens, his forehead dropping forward until it rests against mine.

I close my eyes, breathing him in. It’s the familiar scent of soap and leather and something uniquely Silas. The solid weight of him anchors me when everything else feels unstable.

I know what he needs to hear. I know what he’s too afraid to ask for.

And for once—for once—I don't hesitate.

"I love you," I whisper against his skin.

Silas stiffens. His hands tighten convulsively against my arms, and for a terrifying second, I think he might pull away. That he might not believe me. That he might not want to.

But then he exhales, a shuddering, broken sound, and his arms wrap around me so tightly it knocks the breath from my lungs.

He buries his face in the curve of my neck, holding me like I’m the only thing tethering him to the ground.

"I love you, too," he murmurs, voice raw and shaking. "God, G, I love you so much."

Behind us, Max shifts, and when I glance over Silas’s shoulder, I catch Evie watching from the kitchen, her arms still crossed, a rare softness in her gaze. It’s fleeting—she masks it quickly with a smirk—but I see it. For a woman who pretends the world can't touch her, she feels everything far more deeply than she lets on.

I pull back just enough to look at Silas, keeping my hands on either side of his face. His eyes are a wreck—red-rimmed and stormy, barely holding himself together—but he’s here. He’s mine.

And so is Max.

I tilt my head, catching Max’s eye where he still sits on the couch. He still has a handle on his emotions, controlled the way he always is. But I’m starting to learn how to read him. His patience has always been one of the most dangerous weapons in his arsenal, but I don’t want distance now.

"Come here," I say softly.

For a second, Max hesitates, as if he thinks he’s intruding on something sacred. But then he sees my face—sees that I mean it—and rises in one smooth motion, closing the distance between us.