Page 23 of Ugly Truths (The Veiled Truths Trilogy #2)

Elena

I t’s been five days since Silas stormed into the guest room and took me on the bed like it was the only thing keeping him alive.

He didn’t linger, and as much as I wanted to beg him to stay, I didn’t have that right.

So when he messily dressed and walked out with barely a goodbye, I had to just let him go.

Every minute since he closed that door feels like tearing open an old wound, exposing something raw and vulnerable. It almost hurts more than the first time.

But I suppose I got the best of what he could offer me, didn’t I? Just one more chance to feel him, even if most of it was buried under all that rage.

The look on his face when he admitted that he still wanted me makes my teeth ache. So, I gave him what he demanded; partially for myself, but mostly because he was right. He deserved to take what he wanted, and he delivered.

I absorbed as much of his anger as I could, even if it broke something in me. Now I’m left to exist in the aftermath, doing everything I can to push it from my mind.

Most of my days have been consumed troubleshooting program issues with Ben, Corey, Luis, and Davey over the phone. The logic bombs have made the entire process delicate, but they’re close to making it work. Soon, we might finally have answers, though I’m not sure I’m ready for them.

In the spaces between, I’ve tried to fill them with distractions. I spend time with Natalie when she isn't charity event planning or committed to other obligations. She’s been kind enough not to ask questions about the day Silas showed up and left without a word.

Hell, I’ve even been trying to get to know Cora, who must’ve drawn the short straw because she’s stuck keeping an eye on me.

She mostly stays in the kitchen, perched on one of the barstools, scrolling through her phone while ignoring me.

She’s here before I wake up and only leaves when Davey gets home at the end of the day and locks up the house like Fort Knox.

When I slip in for coffee, I talk her ear off.

Anything to keep my mind from spiraling.

Her responses are clipped, but sometimes, I catch the smallest hint of amusement when I ramble on about something.

Entering the kitchen today is no different.

Before I even see her, I'm picking up where I left off yesterday.

“Also, it drives me nuts when someone accuses you of ‘spoiling’ the plot of a movie that came out twenty years ago. If you have watched it yet—”

I expect Cora to be rolling her eyes at me, phone in one hand and coffee in the other. Instead, Silas is leaning against the counter near the coffee maker, arms and ankles crossed in that effortless way he always manages to carry himself.

His head jerks toward me, a dark curl slipping over the frames of his glasses, and my entire body locks up under his stare.

“Oh.”

The word escapes before I can catch it, and my cheeks heat. Folding into the nearest corner feels preferable to this, but I force my hands behind my back, gripping them together so hard it hurts.

He’s dressed for the office—dark blue suit, black tie, polished black shoes, and his signature subtle accessories. Immaculate and self-assured .

Those deep brown eyes sweep over me in a slow drag from my face to my toes and back again. The way he takes his time makes my skin prickle. His expression is blank. No appreciation. No disdain. Nothing.

There’s the faintest lift of his brow in a silent invitation to speak again, but my thoughts scatter, leaving me standing there like an idiot, hyper-aware of every nerve ending.

“Is everything okay?” The words are the only ones I can manage.

“Yes.” His gaze lingers on me for a beat too long before he continues, “I got an update on Peter during a lunch meeting nearby and figured it was a conversation worth having face-to-face.”

Disappointment churns in my chest just beneath the apprehension.

Of course.

Davey mentioned they started putting out feelers for Peter. They may not have known who he was before, but their networks are capable of unearthing information I never could.

Peter still occupies too much space in my mind, haunting my dreams, ensuring I rarely sleep soundly. The terror of his catching up to me has been my constant companion for months.

“Should I start a drumroll?” I attempt, the joke falling as flat as my voice.

A flicker of something curves the corner of Silas's mouth. It’s brief, but it’s there, and it sends my heart skittering.

“According to Davey’s sources, Peter’s in Southern California,” he starts.

“Apparently, he’s been bragging that he killed one of his preferred contractors for stepping out of line.

” His gaze pins me in place. “Unless he’s developed a habit of that, we’re under the impression he’s talking about you. ”

Though I’ve spent months living under the assumption that Peter thinks I’m dead, it doesn’t stop the flood of relief from crashing over me to hear it confirmed. For the first time in over a decade, the ever-present fear eases just a fraction .

“He’s not above killing anyone,” I murmur, untangling my hands from behind my back. “But Luis would’ve heard if someone else went missing when we were in Alma.”

Silas doesn’t respond right away. His arms cross over his chest, studying my reaction. “That’s good,” he says finally, pushing off the counter. When he straightens to his full height, his sheer presence fills the room.

I take a step toward the refrigerator and open it. The idea of fumbling with the coffee maker under his scrutiny is unbearable, so I grab the iced tea off the top shelf. The pitcher hits the butcher block counter with a small thud .

Avoiding his eyes, I reach for a glass in the cabinet above me. “Yeah,” I pour the tea with forced focus. “It buys us time for the servers, at least.”

“True.” Silas's reply is measured, but it feels like his thoughts are elsewhere.

My fingers tighten around the glass, the etched design pressing sharply into my skin. Looking at him will unravel the fragile composure I’ve managed to piece together.

“Do you need me to do anything?” I ask before taking a long sip of tea, if only to shut myself up.

“No,” he answers. After a pause, he adds, “But I’ve been thinking, it might mean you could actually start over for real at the end of all of this.”

The words stop me cold, and the glass finds its way back to the counter as I process the weight of his suggestion.

“Start over?” My eyes are fixed on the dark liquid instead of him.

“Yes,” he continues, his voice steady. “No more running or hiding. A clean slate.”

His gaze burns against my profile, like he’s searching for the response I can’t seem to form. Suddenly, this whole interaction makes complete sense. He’s already created a plan. It’s written all over his carefully neutral expression and the easy cadence of his voice.

This is how he sets me adrift so I’m no longer his burden.

There was never going to be another outcome. I should just be grateful he’s thinking about letting me walk away, but it doesn’t stop my organs from feeling like they are turning themselves inside out, twisting and knotting until I can’t tell where the pain begins or ends.

My grip on the butcher block tightens, knuckles turning white. “Yeah,” I agree in a whisper, “I guess you’re right.”

Just as I start to think the conversation is over, Silas's voice cuts through the air—sharp, almost angry.

“Is that all you have to say?”

The words hit me with such force that my back straightens. When I turn to face him, his indifferent expression hasn’t changed.

For a second, I wonder if I imagined it.

“What?” The question comes out quieter than I intended.

Pain surges forward in his eyes. When he speaks again, it’s a frustrated growl. “Do you even care?”

I swear I can feel the second the blood freezes in my veins.

He's a blur of motion, closing the distance between us in three quick strides. The force of his presence pushes the air from my lungs.

I instinctively step back, but there’s nowhere to go. My spine hits the counter, the edge biting into my skin. Before I can blink, his hand is just under my jaw, firm enough to make my pulse jump.

“Do you even care?” he repeats. His pupils are blown wide, swallowing the brown of his irises.

My mind reels. I search his face for answers, for something—anything—that will help me make sense of his words, but I’m just as lost as when this conversation started.

“I…” My voice shakes, throat bobbing against his hold. “Of course I care.”

His fingers don’t tighten or loosen. They simply stay, as if daring me to give him something more. Hesitantly, I reach for him, brushing a hand under his jacket and against his abdomen through the fabric of his shirt in a featherlight touch.

A test. A question.

An attempt to understand .

Though I’m still not sure what he’s looking for, I decide to be honest. “I’ll do anything you want me to, Silas.” The words spill out in a soft yet certain whisper. “You just need to tell me.”

The emotion that flickers across his face shifts too fast for me to pin down and know which one might be the most prominent.

He doesn’t know what he wants from me, either.

My free hand moves to his wrist, fingers brushing his skin before I gently pull his hand away from my throat. Without much resistance, he lets it fall to his side.

“What do you need?” I ask. “For me to come to you?”

A faint wash of pink suddenly appears on his cheeks, and I dip my head to maintain eye contact.

His abdomen expands under my touch in a long, shaky breath before lifting his focus to me again.

All of the same conflicting thoughts he hissed at me in the guest bedroom swirl through his eyes and press on me like a physical weight.

And suddenly, it clicks.

He wants me to choose him.

My vision spins.

How is that even possible?

I blink. There’s no world where this makes any sense, but I can see it as clear as day. He's asking because some part of him wants to let me try one more time.

What made him change his mind? Was it something I did? Something someone said to him?

My heart pounds so furiously against my ribcage that my body shakes.

I could turn away right now and lick my wounds until they eventually heal or at least scab over enough for the pain to be tolerable.

In a few weeks or months, I could be halfway across the world, starting over and figuring out who I am.

It’s the life I’d been fantasizing about since I was twenty-five. No one to answer to. No fear.

Or I could try to dissect Silas’s emotions and stay with him, however long that might be.

I’d spend my time trying to convince him of my feelings and show him how much of what we experienced before was real.

We’d argue. He wouldn’t trust me. And I’d have to take every second of it.

There would be no more pretty lies or careful wordplay. Only fractured, imperfect, ugly truths.

And at the end of all of it, he might decide that he still doesn’t want me.

“Si,” I breathe, the nickname soft and intimate in a way I never thought I’d be able to say again. His expression flickers, the faintest crack in the armor he’s so carefully built to protect himself from me.

My hands glide up his chest. His skin is warm, but he stays rigid.

“It never even crossed my mind to try to win you back after everything,” I murmur. My fingers keep moving, brushing lightly along his stubble, wishing my touch would ease some of the tension radiating from him the way it used to. “I don’t deserve it. Or you.”

The faint, familiar scent of cedar from his cologne fills my senses, wrapping around me, anchoring me in the only comfort I’ve known in years. He exhales sharply, shoulders loosening just a fraction beneath my touch.

Still, he doesn’t speak. “If you’ll let me, I’ll choose you first this time.” Our faces are mere inches apart as I continue, “You can decide if you want me back.”

His hands twitch at his sides, caught between what he wants and the part of him that insists he shouldn’t.

“I love you,” I admit as I rise onto my toes. My hands slide into his nape, fingers threading through the soft curls as I say the words he once had the courage to tell me in the spring. “I’m here for as long as you’ll have me.”

My mouth presses to his in a promise and a plea. Every ounce of longing, every regret, every broken piece of me that still belongs to him is laid bare. Hesitancy coats every inch of his body. Still, I press closer, pulse hammering while I search for a response.

Only when my tongue swipes the seam of his lips do the floodgates open.

Hands find my sides in a snap, dragging my softness along the hard planes of his chest. His bruising grip on my hips, the scratch of his beard, and the small bump of his glasses pressing into my nose are almost painful in their familiarity.

Silas is the one person to quiet the static that hums beneath my skin. He is my opposite and equal, a force that both challenges and complements me. And now, with the weight of his body pressing into mine, I feel the balance returning. Like a gravity that was once off-kilter has been corrected.

When we break apart, our breaths mingle in the narrow space between us, heavy and uneven. My body still thrums with uncertainty, but for the first time since he dragged me back to Chicago, the hatred in Silas’s eyes has dimmed to a faint flicker.

“And if you decide you don’t want me…” My fingers trail lightly along the space where his neck meets his shoulder, the teasing edge in my voice tempered by the truth behind my words. “Killing me is still on the table.”

For a moment, his expression softens. And then it happens.

He gives me that breathtaking, soul-shattering smile that he guards so carefully. The one I’ve only seen directed at Natalie, Davey, and Scarlett.

But now, it’s directed at me .

“Let’s go home.” His voice is a low rumble as he leans his forehead against mine, our noses skimming gently. “Please.”

Home.

My heart swells so tight it’s hard to breathe, but I still manage to nod and softly echo his words. “Let’s go home.”