Page 43 of Ugly Truths (The Veiled Truths Trilogy #2)

Elena

N o matter how many times I’ve begged Silas to slow down in the three days, he hasn’t.

Not logic, not compassion, not even my usual attitude, which typically earns at least a flicker of irritation or amusement.

Besides the fleeting moments he seeks comfort—a searing kiss that ends as abruptly as it begins, or pulling my body to his late at night—he’s been swallowed whole by some darkness, and I don’t know how to lure him out.

Watching him unravel is its own form of torture, especially knowing the hand I had in it. Peter might have sent me here, but my involvement is what broke the illusion Silas lived under, and I can’t stop thinking about whether he’s realizing the same thing.

Natalie learning what was on the servers hasn’t helped.

We spent hours in that study after she arrived with Cora.

I held her hand while Silas and Davey explained to her what they found, let her go when she lashed out at us in denial, and was a sounding board for every intrusive thought that came with the overwhelming grief.

By the time we finished talking and crying, the only thing remaining in her was rage.

It seems to fuel Silas. Between that and the steady stream of horrific files Corey, Ben, and Luis have decrypted, I feel like I’m standing in the eye of the storm, bracing for the tail end of it .

In a desperate attempt to escape the mansion and the past few days, we're at Natalie and Danny's, sitting at their dining table. Silas is focused entirely on the glass of whiskey in front of him, his fingers circling its rim in slow, idle patterns.

Dinner has come and gone, the empty plates cleared away, leaving an untouched cheesecake as the lone centerpiece. The silence stretching between us is broken only by the occasional clink of a glass or the subtle scrape of a chair shifting against the floor.

It’s unbearable, waiting for this quiet collapse. Silas isn’t the life of the party on his best days, but at least in those moments, he has life. I want to shake him, but instead, I have to wait for the moment when the last of his sanity snaps.

“We need to do something,” Natalie finally says, of her words drawing our attention like a magnet. Her bloodshot eyes lock on her brother. Davey, who had already moved closer to her during dinner, shifts nearer.

Silas leans back in his chair. When he finally speaks, his voice sounds borrowed. “What would you like to do, Nat?”

“He needs to answer for what he’s done. I don’t care how, but he has to face it.” She exhales sharply, her arms tightening across her chest. “And if he won’t, then he’s too much of a threat to be left unchecked.”

Silas’s hand stills on the glass as he stares at her. “Are you saying you want to—”

“I’m not saying I want to do anything,” she interrupts, “I’m talking about what we need to do.”

The air leaves the room.

Davey's lips press into a thin line. “That feels like a big leap,” he admits quietly.

Natalie’s eyes shoot toward him. “You know my father as well as I do. You see what he’s doing. There are no leaps left to make. We have to talk through every possible outcome, because he might not give us a choice.”

I search Silas’s profile for some kind of reaction. His jaw works, and the flicker of something dark in his eyes makes my stomach twist.

“You’d do that to your own father?” Silas asks .

Natalie turns back to her brother. “He stopped being my father the moment he decided human lives were expendable.” Her palms flatten on the table, one landing on her abandoned napkin. It crumples under her fingers as they contract. “He made his choice.”

Silas’s shoulders visibly coil, but he doesn’t argue. There’s something about the way he examines her that confirms the fear I didn’t dare voice.

“You’ve thought about this,” I whisper.

Silas shifts his soulless eyes to me and it takes everything in me not to shrink away. He stares for a beat too long before looking at Natalie again. Davey’s face drains of color.

“He could refuse to atone.”

Natalie straightens in her chair. “Then we do what needs to be done.” Her voice drops, but the words maintain their bite.

Silas rests his elbows on the edge of the table, hands clasped tightly in front of him. “You’re asking me to make that choice.”

“No,” she says, quieter now. “I’m asking you to help me see Dad for what he is and decide if he’s worth saving at all.”

The sag in Silas's shoulders is almost imperceivable, but he nods.

Davey’s gaze darts back and forth between his wife and brother-in-law before landing on me. The panic in his green irises has to be a reflection of what's in mine, but I’m just as frozen as he is.

“We’ll give him the chance to answer for this.” Silas agrees. “But if he refuses…”

Natalie nods, her gaze softening just slightly as she reaches across the table and places her hand on his. “We’ll do it together.”

No.

Her anger burns so brightly, so fiercely, and I can’t deny that I understand it.

I feel it too. William deserves to pay for what he’s done, for the lives he’s destroyed, for the people he’s treated like disposable assets.

But even if they stop William and do what’s necessary, they’ll have to live with the guilt for the rest of their lives.

I open my mouth to speak, but Silas’s waiting glare chokes the words in my throat .

There is no arguing with him on this, and anyone who tries to deter him will become an enemy—even me.

My jaw clamps shut, fingers twisting in my lap to keep them from shaking. The untouched cheesecake in the center blurs as my eyes sting with unshed tears.

William should pay. He deserves to face every consequence, but not in a way that destroys Silas and Natalie along with him.

—

The mansion’s hallways are unnervingly quiet as Silas and I walk down the second-floor corridor. Dinner at Natalie and Davey’s left my nerves frayed, and Silas’s silence feels colder than usual.

Silas stops so abruptly that I keep walking before I realize he’s no longer beside me.

I turn back to find him standing in front of his study door.

His hand hovers over the biometric keypad, fingers twitching slightly.

The pale blue glow of the keypad casts faint shadows across his face, accentuating the tension carved into his features. His finger presses against the scanner.

“Silas,” I call softly, just as the keypad emits a low beep.

The small green light blinks on the pad, and the door clicks faintly, easing open just enough to tempt him further. Instead of stepping through, his hand stays on the keypad, like the act of unlocking it has taken something from him.

“Silas,” I say again, firmer this time. His head turns slightly, just enough for me to catch the turmoil swirling in his eyes.

“Go,” he murmurs, voice devoid of warmth. “I’ll join you later.”

I step closer, reaching out to gently touch his arm. His gaze drops to the contact, and for a second, I think he might pull away. “Come to bed with me,” I whisper.

His jaw tightens. “I have too much to do.” The words sound like gravel scraping against stone .

“You can do it tomorrow,” I counter, taking another step closer. “Just come to bed. Please.” My hand trails down his arm. “You need sleep, Silas. You need to let yourself breathe.”

Tension radiates off him in waves, but I still lean in, brushing the corner of his mouth with a featherlight kiss. “Come with me,” I repeat.

For a brief moment, I see him—the Silas who isn’t consumed by rage and guilt and duty. His hand lifts to my waist in a hesitant touch before he nods. It’s small, but it’s enough.

I reach around him to pull the study door closed and then thread my fingers through his, leading him toward the bedroom. His feet are heavy against the polished wood floor. I glance back at him as we walk. Whatever glimpse of him I’d seen a moment ago has been buried again.

In the bedroom, Silas crosses to the closet while I head to the dresser, both of us gathering pajamas. The quiet synchronicity of sharing this space still takes me by surprise. It feels intimate in a way that nothing else does.

I follow him into the bathroom, where the glow of the vanity lights softens the sharpness of his profile.

As I set my pajamas on the counter, we slip into a silent rhythm.

After brushing my teeth and washing my face, I reach for my hairbrush, running it through my hair, but my attention is on Silas through the mirror.

He rinses his mouth of toothpaste, though his shoulders remain tight.

All I can see is the exhaustion in his eyes, the weight pulling at the corners of his mouth. He grips the edge of the sink, knuckles white against the marble.

“What?” Silas demands, those cold eyes meeting mine in the reflection. “You’ve been staring at me like you have something to say. So say it.”

I freeze. “I…” The words get lost somewhere between my brain and my mouth.

He despises it when I hold back, but if I don’t, how will he not hate me ?

“Well?” he presses, his voice harsher now.

I take a breath, lowering the brush to the counter. “I’m worried about you,” I say quietly.

He scoffs, turning away from the mirror. “I’m fine,” he mutters as he moves toward the towels hanging next to the bathtub, busying himself by unfolding one he doesn’t need.

“You’re not fine,” I counter, turning to face him. “And I understand why. But this—” My hand gestures vaguely toward him, “—isn’t sustainable.”

He tosses the towel onto the edge of the tub. “What do you want from me?”

“I just want you to let yourself feel it,” I answer. “This isn’t just another problem to fix, Silas. It’s your family. Your father .”

His bitter chuckle cuts through me. “That’s not the problem. The problem is that while I’m trying to figure out how to handle all of this, you’re judging everything I do. The way you looked at me during dinner proves it.”

My breath catches. “I think Natalie’s suggestion tonight was impulsive,” I say truthfully. “And dangerous.”