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That’s not a man. That’s my father’s weapon.

His movements are too precise. There’s no wasted energy. His boots hit the ground like they belong there. Like he’s not visiting. He’s arriving . And his eyes… fuck. Even from this distance, I can feel them. Unsympathetic. Sharp. Guarded.

He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t pause for a second. He just looks at the estate like he’s scanning a battlefield.

And then my father walks out to meet him. Personally.

Evander fucking Vane, who seems like he makes everyone else knock and wait, is waiting on the damn steps like a doorman. That’s how I know this guy isn’t just some security flunky. He’s something else.

They shake hands. Or something close to it. It’s more like a professional nod, quick and clipped. No words exchanged that I could see. Just two men who know exactly what they’re doing.

Silas Creed doesn’t even glance up. He doesn’t have to. The goosebumps rising on my skin say it all.

But I swear, just for a second, he pauses like he feels eyes on him watching his every move, and like something in his bones recognizes mine.

And suddenly, I can’t breathe. Because I’ve seen men like him before. I've seen soldiers and suits and predators in designer shoes. But this is something different. Stillness. That’s what gets me.

He doesn’t fidget or shift his weight. He just exists , solid and unshaken, like the world will move around him .

I take a step back from the window. I don’t know this man. I’ve barely seen him, and he’s already getting to me. And that’s a fucking problem.

I back away from the window like it has burned me. My pulse is still hammering from that stare, or the lack of one. He didn’t even look at me. Not directly. But I felt his eyes already mapping me out without needing to find my face.

I hate that. I hate him , whoever the hell he is, for making me feel that kind of static under my skin. He’s making me feel uncomfortable in my own room. Fucking bastard!

My room feels smaller now, like his presence outside shrinks the air I can breathe.

The storm doesn’t help, the wind curling around the estate like it’s trying to peel the walls away.

The occasional flash of lightning paints the room in stark, surgical white.

I should turn on the lights or maybe change my clothes.

I should just do something that makes me feel normal so I can take my mind off of what’s happening in my life right now.

But instead, I pace, my bare feet slapping softly against the polished hardwood, my arms crossed tightly over my chest like I’m trying to hold myself together.

Downstairs, I hear the front door open. There are no raised voices or dramatic footsteps, just the kind of quiet that screams control.

Of course. I’m not down there screaming at the top of my lungs or smashing things despite knowing it won’t make a difference.

This guy probably doesn’t make a noise unless he wants to break someone’s neck with it.

I creep toward my bedroom door and press my ear to it.

Nothing. Just the distant thrum of rain against the windows and the low murmur of voices too muffled to catch.

My fingers tighten on the doorknob, itching to go down there, to see him up close.

Maybe even to tear this whole scene to shreds before it gets any worse.

But I don’t. Not yet. I don’t want to think about the upcoming days and how everything’s about to change. Even though I’ve been living at home, there was still some privacy I had, but now, even that won’t be an option.

I just wait in my room. Like prey. But I know if this guy is half as dangerous as he feels, I need to see him before he sees me again.

I cross to the staircase and hover in the shadows of the landing.

The grand entryway below is lit like a fucking museum, with gold fixtures, marble tile, and the whole “old money never tries too hard” aesthetic.

My father stands by the fireplace, his hands behind his back like he’s giving a goddamn war briefing.

And he stands just inside the door.

Jesus.

Silas Creed. Even his name sounds like a fucking warning, filling the space like smoke.

He’s not just tall. He’s dense , like he was carved from a single slab of stone and someone forgot to add the soft parts.

His black coat is still wet at the shoulders, his combat boots are perfectly silent on the floor, and a duffel is slung over one shoulder like it weighs nothing.

His face is hard to see from where I stand, obscured by the way the shadows drape across him like a veil.

But what I do catch, even in fragments, is striking, almost dangerously so.

His jawline is all sharp edges, clean and chiseled like cut glass, as if it had been carved by something with precision and intent.

The planes of his face are weathered in a way that speaks of time.

He looks like he’s in his mid-forties, but there’s nothing soft or worn-out about him.

If anything, there’s a dangerous kind of stillness to him, like a man who’s seen too much and learned to keep it quiet.

His eyes catch the light just enough to reveal a color that’s almost silver-blue, stark against the darker tones around him. They don’t dart or wander. They settle like he’s already assessed the room and made peace with what he’ll need to do if things turn.

As he moves and his face hits the light, I notice that at the base of his neck, just above the line of his collar, a scar is snaking its way into view.

It’s thin but ragged, like it wasn’t made cleanly, and it definitely hurt.

It disappears beneath the fabric, hinting at a longer story buried just out of sight.

Not far from that, his sleeve shifts slightly as he moves, revealing the ink of an eagle in mid-flight stretched across his upper arm.

Its wings are outstretched, its talons curved, the feathers etched with such detail that they seem ready to lift from his skin and take off.

It’s not the kind of tattoo you get on a whim. It looks earned.

There’s a presence about him that feels like gravity, subtle, steady, and impossible to ignore.

Even without a word, he’s the kind of man who makes a room quieter just by being in it.

He doesn’t speak. Not even when my dad offers him a drink.

He just shakes his head, then turns to scan the room like he’s memorizing every angle.

Dad says something else, and I watch Silas nod, but barely. There’s not even a hint of a smile on his face. He looks like he’s a machine built to follow orders. Or break them, if they don’t suit him.

That’s when I realize I’m holding my breath. Fuck this. I’m not going to skulk in corners like some scared little socialite. If this is my new reality, I want to meet it head-on.

I stomp down the stairs, each step louder than it needs to be, like noise can drown out nerves.

Maybe if I sound confident enough, it’ll hide the twisting in my gut.

My father looks up first, his jaw locking tight like he’s bracing for a storm he’s seen coming for miles.

Silas turns a moment later, just half a beat behind, but somehow it feels intentional, like he was always going to wait until I made the first move.

When our eyes meet, a jolt shoots straight through me.

He doesn’t blink or back out. He just looks at me, really looks, and it’s not just seeing. It’s dissecting. Measuring. Absorbing.

His gaze slides over my face, down my body, and then back up. Not in a creepy, leering way, but in a way that makes my skin prickle, like I’ve been marked. Tagged. It feels like a predator picking out the one animal in the herd that runs a little too fast for her own good.

I hate how my body reacts. It betrays me before I can even think to stop it.

My breath stutters, hitching in my throat like it has forgotten how to move naturally.

My stomach coils tight, a slow, sick twist that makes it hard to tell if it’s dread or something far more dangerous.

And worse, so much worse, heat climbs up my neck, crawling over my skin like a flush of guilt.

It’s the kind of warmth that prickles, exposing me, as if I’ve been caught red-handed doing something I shouldn’t.

I can feel it blooming across my cheeks, impossible to hide, branding me with the kind of shame that has nothing to do with fear and everything to do with wanting the wrong thing.

My pale skin always betrays me, turning pink at the worst moments, and this is one of them.

I know it from the way my cheeks are burning up.

Dad clears his throat. “Lyra, this is Mr. Creed.”

Of course Dad gives him the title to make him more human. It sounds like he’s introducing a private banker instead of a living, breathing warhound.

I fold my arms and stare him down. “Do you speak, Mr. Creed? Or do you just do that whole ‘dead-eyed murder stare’ thing professionally?”

And then, to my surprise , he actually speaks.

“Only when it’s worth it,” he says, his voice low and smooth, with that edge that sounds like it was dragged across gravel and whiskey.

It’s like the room forgets how to breathe. I swear the storm outside grows louder, or maybe it’s just the rush in my ears.

Dad glares at me. “Lyra…”

“No, it’s fine,” I say, not breaking eye contact with Silas. “I like knowing the hired help’s level of selective mutism up front.”

Silas doesn’t react. He doesn’t show any offense or amusement. He just watches me like he’s waiting to see what I’ll do next. I’m not some toddler who’s going to do tricks for him here.

“I’m not here to help,” he says. “I’m here to protect.”

His words are simple. But the way he says them sounds like a vow. Or a fucking threat. Who knows?

Dad jumps in before I can throw back another line. “He’ll be staying in the guest wing. The east corridor.”

I glance at Silas’s duffel. “You travel light.”

“Everything I need, I carry,” he replies.