Page 142 of Silas

Belatedly, he straightens. "Um..."

I grab his hand and haul him toward the hotel. "Come on, you big weenie. It'll take half an hour. You walk down the aisle, listen to the priest, pose for some photos, and you can back to your life. You wanna stay for the reception, be my guest. Or, rather, Emily and Tom's guest since it's their wedding."

He lets me pull him into a walk, but hauls me to a stop once through the doors. "Wait, wait, wait. Hold up."

I huff, turning to face him. "What? Scared of weddings? Trust me, I won't be catching the bouquet. You've got nothing to worry about."

"No, it's not that."

I give him an impatient look and a shake of my head. "Well then? What? Spit it out, pretty boy."

"Jesus, you've got a mouth on you."

I shoot him a droll look. "Yeah, and under other circumstances I'd show you what else I can do with my mouth besides talk mad shit, but we don't have time. And trust me, that's your loss—I can suck a marble through a drinking straw. Now. If you've got something to say, say it. We gotta get my best friend married so I can get good and trashed."

He blinks down at me, absorbing what I've said. "Marble through a drinking straw? Fuck me."

"As I've said, no time. Maybe after, if you get your shit in gear. I know a good broom closet."

He laughs, scrubbing a paw through his hair, making it messy and so sexy my thong sizzles, so hot does it make me. "I just want to know your name."

"Oh." I laugh, sticking out my hand. "Terra Connolly."

"Terra. Cool name." He takes my hand and shakes—to his credit, he squeezes pretty hard, not crushing but also not acting like I'm a delicate little flower petal. "Saxon Cabot."

"Saxon? Like the dudes who invaded England?"

He nods. "The same.”

I give him a once over. "It suits you."

I grab his hand again and haul him to the elevators, stabbing the button for the third floor, where the conference rooms are.

Abruptly, I feel Saxon go stiff as a board next to me.

I glance up at him and see that the blood has drained from his face, leaving him looking like a Roman statue. His eyes are fixed on a point dead ahead--the doors of the hotel.

I follow his gaze and see four men standing in a line abreast. They're all dressed like Saxon, in black suits with no tie. These men, however, radiate threat. Death lurks in their cold, dead eyes.

"Fuck." His voice is low, hard. "Fucking fuck. Fucking goddamn motherfucking shit."

"Friends of yours?" I ask as the doors slide closed.

He doesn't answer for a long time. "No."

I huff a sarcastic laugh. "No shit, Sherlock." I eye him. "Who were they?"

"Very dangerous men who want me dead."

"Well that's fun."

He looks down at me. "No. It's not."

"Jeez, duh. Take a joke."

His green eyes are ice-cold, furious—the kind of fury that masks outright terror. "No, you don't understand, Terra Connolly. They want me dead. They wanted me dead years ago. And now they've found me."

"So hide?"