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I tilt my head, pretending to consider it. His offer isn’t tempting. He isn’t tempting. What’s tempting? The idea of someone who wouldn’t tear me open. Someone who wouldn’t leave bruises under the skin or fire in my veins. Someone who doesn’t know how to wreck me the way Silas does.

But that’s the problem, isn’t it?

I want to be wrecked.

Before I can answer, a server approaches with a drink on a silver tray. It’s pale pink and served in a frosted coupe, garnished with a sugared rim and a rose petal. Instagram-perfect. My hand wraps around it by reflex, but the second I lift it to my nose, I freeze.

It’s too sharp. Not sweet at all.

“Something wrong?” Ethan asks, his brow lifting.

I smile thinly and shake my head. “Changed my mind.”

I wave it off, place it back on the tray without a sip, and flag another server. “Sparkling water. No lemon.”

My pulse is elevated now, though not from fear but from that familiar adrenaline-laced awareness. The kind that used to hit me in clubs, at charity galas, and on the red carpet when I knew things were about to go sideways.

The kind that screams at me to stay sharp.

I take a slow sip of water, my eyes scanning the bar. All around me, people are watching, smiling, whispering, pretending. But only one of them sees me.

And he’s not in the room. He’s everywhere.

And I know, if I so much as stumble, Silas will be there. Not like a hero but like a storm.

By the time the night drags on toward its blurry, glittering end, my feet are aching, and my champagne flute has been refilled at least four times, though I haven’t touched a single drop.

I’ve laughed, twirled, and let flashbulbs capture me like prey, yet that knot in my stomach still never loosens.

I’ve danced with at least six different men. Harper kept count like it was a sport and posed for three dozen photos. I’ve played the part beautifully. Too beautifully. Everyone around me is in various stages of drunk, slurring through goodbyes and fumbling with their coat checks.

But I’m just tired.

I haven’t partied like this in ages. Not since before the letters. Before Silas.

He hasn’t appeared even once tonight, and yet he’s haunted every move I’ve made. Every time I laughed too loud, every time a man leaned in too close, and every time I looked up and felt his eyes in the dark.

I know what I’ll find waiting for me before I even step into the town car.

Sure enough, the moment I settle into the leather seat, there he is.

Silas . Leaning against the driver’s side door and talking in low tones to the chauffeur.

His broad shoulders are wrapped in a tailored black coat, with crisp lapels sharp as his jawline.

Black slacks, black button-up, open at the throat, and sleeves rolled just enough to reveal the tattoos winding up his forearms. Tactical, controlled, and utterly lethal. Also absolutely fucking beautiful.

My thighs clench, and my chest squeezes. Because this man doesn’t just watch me. He owns the space around me.

The drive back is quiet. Willowridge bleeds into the forest, and streetlights vanish. All that’s left is the sound of tires on the road and the pulse in my throat.

At the estate, the lights are low, and the hush is sharp. He opens the door for me without speaking. He just looks at me with those dark eyes like he knows exactly how many drinks I refused. How many fake laughs I let slip through painted lips.

I step out of the car, my heels clicking softly on marble as I make my way inside. My skin feels too tight, like the dress is clinging to me in a throttling manner. I kick off my shoes just inside the door, sighing at the relief.

But I don’t make it to the stairs.

A hand slams beside my head while the other wraps around my throat, not choking, just holding .

Silas.

He pins me to the door with his entire body, a wall of heat and muscle and fury wrapped in hardness and steel. My whole body is on fire at the touch and the proximity.

“You listened. Don’t drink anything you didn’t open yourself,” he says, his voice like iron.

My breath stutters. “You watched me again.”

“I always watch.”

His eyes are on me, pouring into me like he’s drinking me in. My body responds before my mind does, arching just a little into his hold, my pulse hammering against his palm.

He leans in, his nose brushing my jaw. His breath is warm and dangerous. Then, just as fast, he lets go. “Be a good girl,” he murmurs. “I have somewhere to be.”

He steps back, just like that.

And I hate how disappointed I feel.

I hate that I want to grab his wrist, pull him back, press his body against mine, and whisper every filthy thing I need him to do.

I want him to tear the dress from my skin, shove me against the nearest wall, and take me with the kind of hunger he never quite hides.

I want his hands everywhere—on my throat again, yes, but also on my hips, my thighs, and between them, pushing me past the edge until all that exists is him and the way he ruins me.

I want him rough. I want him relentless.

I want to forget every camera flash, every whispered comment, every moment tonight that I had to pretend.

But I’m too tired. Too spent. All that remains of me tonight is skin and longing and the ache of everything I didn’t ask for.

So I just nod. “Okay,” I whisper.

And then just like that, he’s gone.

I drag myself up the stairs, each step heavier than the last. The dress clings to my skin, the fabric catching at my knees as if even it wants me to stop. I don’t bother changing. I don’t bother washing my face. I just collapse onto the bed face-first, the cool sheets a balm I didn’t know I needed.

Sleep swallows me before I can even close my eyes.