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Silas steps into the space he left behind. His movement is not rushed or dramatic. Just… certain. Like a predator who knows the kill is inevitable.

His closeness alone should terrify me. But instead, it calms something wild in my chest.

“Are you okay?” His voice is low, but there’s an edge to it, a sharpness beneath the calm.

I nod, though it feels like my throat is wrapped in barbed wire. “Yeah.”

He doesn’t look away. “What was he saying?”

I pause. “Nothing. He’s probably off to find another girl who’s easier to target.” Bitterness coats my words like ash. It tastes like every unwanted touch, every too-close breath, every time I’ve had to force a smile to keep the peace. “Men like that are always on the hunt,” I add.

Silas’s gaze deepens as if he’s memorizing something ugly so he can destroy it later.

“Don’t worry,” he says, low and final. “This is the last time he’ll do something like that.”

I look up at him, and he meets my gaze. His words are a warning, a promise, and a verdict.

I don’t ask more. I don’t need to. The immensity of it sits between us like a breathing thing.

We walk toward the SUV, the bouquet still clutched in my hands like it’s armor. My coffee’s gone cold, but I sip it anyway. He opens the SUV door. His fingers brush mine, barely, and it shouldn’t mean anything, but it does. It roots me.

I climb in silently, and we drive back without words, but with everything unspoken hanging in the air. Heavy. Electric. Dangerous.

And beneath it all, gratitude. It’s been so long since I truly felt protected and safe. What does that even say about me and my life?

By the time we pull up to the estate, the sun is dipping low enough to stain the sky blood-orange.

It’s the kind of glow that tricks you into thinking everything’s soft and safe when it’s anything but.

God, I hate winters. I sit in the passenger seat of Silas’s SUV, my fingers loosely gripping the bouquet in my lap, the wildflowers now starting to wilt at the edges.

The coffee cup’s empty. My stomach’s tight, and my head’s not far behind.

Silas doesn’t say a word as he puts the car in park. He just sits there, his hands still on the wheel, his eyes forward like he’s watching something I can’t see.

I glance over at him. “You coming?”

His jaw flexes. That unreadable expression locks back into place, like shutters slamming over windows.

“Go ahead,” he says, his voice low. Controlled. “I’ll be in later.”

I pause, narrowing my eyes slightly. “Where are you going?”

He doesn’t answer right away. He just flicks a look toward me for a brief moment and then looks back out of the windshield. “Just need to clear my head,” he finally answers.

I know he’s lying. I feel it in my bones, in the way his voice strains, and how still he’s gone, tensed up instead of calm.

But I’m too damn tired to dig. The emotional whiplash of today, fuck, of this whole week , has caught up to me, even with caffeine buzzing in my blood.

So, I just nod and mutter, “Fine.”

I grab my flowers, open the door, and step out into the cooling air. Gravel crunches beneath my boots. The estate looms in front of me, elegant and monstrous, like it always does.

I don’t look back as I walk inside.

But I feel his eyes on me, like a ghost’s hand trailing down my spine.

Inside, the house is quiet. Still. It always is, despite the servants.

Solitude hangs here like a second skin, one you either get used to or drown beneath.

I toss my bag on the nearest chair, drop the flowers on the foyer table—screw getting a vase—and head upstairs.

My boots thud softly on the old hardwood.

Once I’m in my room, I change into a tank top and sleep shorts and kick off the rest of the day like it’s a bad habit. I leave the choker on. Because of course I fucking do.

I throw myself onto the bed, one leg slung over the side, and try to read. Something trashy. Fast-paced. Distracting.

But the words don’t stick. The letters blur. My mind keeps drifting to Silas’s voice, the brush of that asshole’s hand, and the way the sunlight hit the pendant as I clasped it this morning like a collar and said nothing about it.

Eventually, I toss the book across the room. It lands with a soft thump against the dresser.

I wander down the hall barefoot, the marble floor cool beneath my feet.

The house feels quiet in that thick, almost smothering way it always does when the sun dips low.

There’s no real reason I go to the living room.

I tell myself it’s boredom, but maybe it’s just the part of me that still aches for something familiar.

When I push open the door, he’s there.

My father.

Evander Vane. Every inch the image of control and old money, sitting stiffly in his leather chair.

A glass of something dark in his hand, as always, his eyes locked on the television.

The volume’s low, just enough to hear, just enough to ignore.

The fire crackles quietly in the fireplace even though there’s not much need for it.

Everything in this room screams curated warmth, but it’s more reserved than a tomb.

I hesitate at the threshold.

I could turn around and go back to my room. Pretend we’re not strangers living in the same house, like ghosts circling the same grief.

But I refuse to do that.

Instead, I walk in and sit down at the far end of the couch. He doesn’t look at me or even try to talk. He just lets out a grunt, his version of hello, or maybe just a reminder that he’s still breathing.

We don’t talk. We never do, not really. Not since Mom died.

Back then, we were a family. Or at least, we pretended well enough. She was the glue and the warmth. The translator between my moods and his absence. Without her, it’s all empty air and unsaid things that hang like smoke in the room.

I pull out my phone and scroll, pretending to be invested in the endless feed of updates.

Group chat is still alive, Zara posted another story from last night, someone’s dropped a thirst trap, and there’s a poll about which club to hit next weekend.

I scroll through it all, detached, not really absorbing anything.

And then I hear it.

“…authorities discovered the vehicle abandoned off the main highway…”

I lift my head slowly.

On the TV, the screen flashes to a silver car, its tires flat, the door slightly ajar, the hazard lights flashing like eyes blinking in panic.

My stomach knots.

“…victim was found a few yards from the vehicle with severe injuries to the face and ribs…”

Then the photo appears.

Him.

The guy from the market. The one with the slicked-back hair and smug face. The one who touched my wrist as though I owed him something, who got too close and said too much.

I freeze, my blood turning cold.

“…no valuables taken, and no witnesses have come forward. Police say the nature of the injuries suggests premeditation. A message, perhaps...”

Their voices blur together.

My heart is pounding now, not with fear but recognition. Certainty. I don’t need the cops to investigate. I already know who did it.

Silas.

Of course it was him. The way he looked at me after the guy walked off. The calm in his voice when he said, “This is the last time he’ll do something like that.”

I feel it then, the bitter, electric chill curling in my gut. It’s not disgust or shock. It’s something much, much darker. Satisfaction.

I glance sideways at my father. He’s still watching the screen like it’s any other report. No reaction. No hint of guilt or concern. Just a slow sip of his drink.

But me?

I can’t stop the smirk pulling at my lips.

Because Silas Creed didn’t just protect me. He made a fucking statement.

And I shouldn’t like it.

But I do.

God help me. I fucking do .