9:00 PM | "Taboo" Bar
The air in "Taboo" sizzled. Bass pounded like a
frantic heartbeat, thick with the cloying perfume of spilled liquor and
desperate sweat. Black marble and gilded edges drank the low, pulsing light,
twisting the room into a seductive, dangerous dream. On the dance floor, bodies
writhed as one slick, feverish mass, driven wild by the band's screaming
guitars and primal drums.
At the heart of the hurricane, two men sat in a pocket of
charged silence. Nathaniel Sterling traced the sweating edge of his Sprite
glass, his gaze locked on Silas Thorne with a mix of brotherly concern and
profound irritation. Silas didn't sip; he drowned. Another shot of top-shelf
whiskey vanished down his throat, the brutal burn doing nothing to cauterise
the raw, gnawing void inside him. His knuckles were white around the glass.
"For the love of all that's holy, Silas," Nathaniel
exploded, slapping his palm lightly on the table. The ice in his glass jumped.
"How much longer? I traded story-time with my actual princess for this…
this vigil at the altar of your misery! Her Majesty's bedtime decree waits for
no man, not even a brooding Thorne patriarch."
Silas's head snapped up. His eyes, usually icy lakes, were
storm-dark and dangerous. "Your idea of support," he snarled, the
words dripping venom, "is watching me self-destruct while you nurse fizzy
water? Spare me the hypocrisy, Nathan."
Nathaniel leaned in, unfazed but intense. "Try smelling
like a distillery when a three-year-old demands cuddles. It's not hypocrisy,
it's survival. A sweet, relentless tyranny you'll never understand." He
jabbed a finger towards Silas, his voice dropping, layered with pity and
frustration. "Bachelor island. A son you barely know. You're drowning in
emptiness, Silas, and whiskey is a damn poor anchor."
"Enough!" Silas's roar was low, guttural,
vibrating with a fury that made nearby patrons flinch. He slammed his glass
down, shoving Nathaniel's hand off his shoulder with a violence that spoke of
shattered control. A harsh, humourless laugh scraped from his throat. Idiot.
Seeking solace from a man whose world revolves around bedtime stories and
glittery tiaras. He grabbed the whiskey bottle, ignoring the glass, and took a
savage, burning gulp. The liquid fire was a welcome agony, a fleeting
distraction from the howling hollowness within.
Near the stage, VIP Section Edge
Elara perched on the stool like a bird ready to flee. Every thunderous
beat of the bass vibrated through her bones, the cloying mix of perfume, sweat,
and alcohol thick enough to choke on. Beside her, Chloe practically glowed,
radiating triumph. "Celebration time, Elly! Sisley sun, here we
come!" she declared, snapping her fingers for the bartender. "One
Pink Lady, one top-shelf margarita! Easy on the ice, heavy on the fun!"
She winked, leaning in conspiratorially. "Relax, gorgeous. My guy's on
standby – safe passage guaranteed. Tonight, we unwind."
Elara forced a smile that didn't reach her eyes. Escape from the
suffocating tension of Hayes Manor was worth the sensory overload, even if the
pounding music made her temples throb. Her fingers traced the cool condensation
on her glass, but her mind was leagues away, trapped in the gnawing, hollow
ache of her parents' missing heirloom. Where could it be?
Her drifting gaze caught the violent swing of the heavy entrance doors.
CRASH.
Julian Thorne exploded into the bar like a tempest. Drunken fury
radiated from him in waves, his black coat swirling around him like a shroud of
vengeance. Alex, a grim shadow at his heels, scanned the crowd with predatory
focus. They cut through the revelry like sharks scenting blood, heading
straight for the shadowed VIP corridors.
Elara's breath hitched, her stomach twisting into icy knots. No. Not
here. Not now.
"Shit. Is that him?" Chloe hissed, her celebratory mood
evaporating. She grabbed Elara's arm, her grip tight. "Thorne looks like
he's on a warpath. Perfect timing. Chug that drink, babe. We are ghosts in
three… two…"
Elara nodded numbly, raising the sweet cocktail to her lips. But before
the liquid could touch her tongue, a different sound ripped through the bass –
raw, panicked screams from the private rooms.
"SECURITY! SOMEONE CALL HELP! HE'S GONNA KILL HIM!"
The crowd surged like a startled beast. Morbid curiosity warred with
fear. Elara was moving before conscious thought, shoving past gawking bodies,
her heart hammering against her ribs.
A figure stumbled into the open – short, portly, scrambling on hands and
knees, pure terror etched onto his bleeding face. Behind him, emerging from the
gloom like Death himself, was Julian. An empty bottle, jagged and lethal, was
clenched in his fist. His face… it wasn't human. Rage had twisted it into
something monstrous, backlit and terrifying.
"Think you can run, Porter?" Julian's voice was a blade of
frozen steel, slicing through the noise. He lunged, a vicious kick connecting
with a sickening thud. Porter crashed onto a low table, glass shattering, fruit
scattering like gory confetti.
"JULIAN! PLEASE! IT WASN'T ME! I SWEAR ON MY LIFE!" Porter
shrieked, blood and sweat mingling on his jowls, his eyes wide with animal
fear.
"Porter?!" Chloe's gasp was pure horror beside Elara. Elara
felt the blood drain from her face, leaving her cold and shaking. That
night…
Julian bent low, his lips a hair's breadth from Porter's ear. The
venomous whisper carried, chilling the air: "Elara. Belongs. To. ME. You
touched what's mine? You bought a one-way ticket to hell, you filthy pig."
"No! I just grabbed her! She got away! I swear I didn't defile
her!" Porter babbled, the memory of pain and Claire Hayes's lies flooding
back in a paralysing wave. "Mercy! PLEASE!"
"LIAR!" Julian's roar was primal, the image of Elara broken by
this sweating beast consuming him – the root of all his pain, his loss. His
knuckles cracked white on the broken bottle's neck. "Touch my woman? ROT
IN HELL!"
He raised the shattered weapon, its jagged edge catching the light like
a demon's fang.
The bar erupted in screams.
"JULIAN! STOP!" Elara's voice tore raw from her throat, raw
with terror. She fought through the frozen crowd, desperation lending her
strength, but it was too far. She was a spectator to her own nightmare, forced
to watch the jagged glass descend towards Porter's throat. Time slowed,
stretched thin.
THWACK.
Alex slammed into Julian's arm with brutal force. The bottle flew,
shattering harmlessly against the ruined tabletop.
Relief hit Elara like a physical blow, dizzying, overwhelming. Her legs
dissolved. The floor rushed up to meet her…
…Only to be caught against an immovable wall of heat and strength. An
iron-strong arm locked around her waist, hauling her upright, pressing her
flush against a broad, powerful chest. The scent of sandalwood, aged whiskey,
and raw male authority engulfed her – terrifyingly familiar.
"Steady." The voice above her was deep, calm, and vibrated
through her bones. Silas Thorne.
Her heart stuttered, then raced like a trapped bird. She tried to push
away, to gasp a thank you and flee the suffocating intimacy, but his hold was
absolute. Her limbs were leaden.
"Mr. Thorne!" Alex's voice was thick with shock, laced with
dread.
Julian whipped around, the murderous rage draining from his face,
replaced by stunned, slack-jawed disbelief. His eyes locked not on his father,
but on the man's possessive hold around Elara.
Elara froze. Silas's palm burned through the thin silk of her dress,
branding her skin. It wasn't painful, but it was claiming, undeniable. The
searing heat was a shocking counterpoint to the icy dread in her veins. Her
cheeks flamed crimson, then paled to chalk.
"Composed?" His murmur near her ear was deceptively soft, a
rumble felt more than heard.
"Y-yes," she choked out, the word barely a whisper.
"Th-thank you." Let go. Let me go NOW. Every second pinned
against him, under the scorching stares of Julian and Alex, was exquisite
torture.
Finally, finally, his hand slid from her waist. The movement was
deliberate, slow, almost possessive in its lingering touch. The heat remained,
a phantom brand.
Silas's gaze, arctic and commanding, swept over his son and Alex. He
didn't shout; his quiet authority was a physical force. "Nathan." One
word, heavy with implication. Erase this. All of it.
Nathaniel materialised instantly, his usual charm replaced by cold
efficiency. "Handled." His sharp gaze darted between Silas and the
trembling woman beside him, a spark of intense curiosity igniting.
Silas turned, his presence an undeniable command. "Julian. Alex.
Move. Now." His eyes, dark and inescapable, then pinned Elara. "Miss
Hayes. With me."
No request. An order. He didn't wait, striding towards the exit, the air
crackling in his wake. Julian, fury replaced by sullen shock, stumbled after
him. Alex followed, jaw clenched tight.
Trapped. Elara threw Chloe one desperate, apologetic look before falling
into step behind the imposing figure of Silas Thorne. The echo of his touch,
his scent, his command, burned hotter than shame on her skin.
As the grim procession vanished, Nathaniel watched, a slow, knowing
smirk spreading across his face. He gave a sharp nod to his waiting security.
Patrons shrank back, cowed by the sudden, brutal shift in power.
Well, well, Silas, Nathaniel thought, his eyes fixed on the doorway
where Elara had disappeared, tucked close to the older Thorne. Looks like
your lonely fortress just had its walls breached. The secret simmering
beneath the surface promised a volcanic fury far more dangerous than his son's
clumsy rage. The game had changed.