The heavy thud of expensive leather boots echoed unnaturally
loud in the sudden silence of the bar reception hall. Silas Thorne cut an
imposing figure, clad in a dark brown suede flight jacket that emphasised the
breadth of his shoulders, tapering down to a lean waist. Navy blue casual
trousers ended in sturdy brown Martin boots, each step radiating controlled
power. His broad-shouldered, narrow-waisted silhouette wasn't just imposing; it
was a physical weight, a palpable aura of authority that instantly stifled the
air, leaving the group trailing behind him in tense, subdued silence.
Julian and Alex walked closest, their expressions grim.
Behind them, Elara and Chloe exchanged wide-eyed glances, huddling
instinctively together under the oppressive atmosphere.
"Who is that?" Chloe hissed, her voice barely a
whisper as she leaned into Elara. "Seriously handsome, but
terrifying."
Elara's gaze flickered to the man's rigid, unyielding back.
"Julian's father," she murmured back, her own voice tight.
"OMG!" Chloe's jaw genuinely dropped. "He
must mainline preservatives! How is that Julian's father? He looks like... like
Julian's dangerously hot older brother who could ruin your life before
breakfast."
A faint, strained smile touched Elara's lips. "That's
pushing it. Look closer. There are lines... around the eyes. He's definitely
not young." She gestured subtly towards Silas's profile.
The hushed conversation hung in the unnervingly quiet space.
Almost simultaneously with Elara's last word, Silas's powerful stride halted.
He didn't turn, but the sudden stillness was more potent than any shout.
Chloe's eyes shot to Elara, wide with panic: Did he hear?
Elara's heart stuttered, apprehension coiling in her
stomach: Surely not...
The next heartbeat shattered that hope. Silas turned. His
gaze, deep and sharp as obsidian shards, swept over them. Elara instinctively
held her breath, her pulse hammering against her ribs as his dark, fathomless
eyes met hers for a fleeting, paralysing instant. Relief was a cold wave when
his focus shifted, landing with crushing weight on Julian and Alex.
"Alex," Silas's voice was clear, resonant, and
utterly devoid of warmth. He stood backlit by the bar's entrance, the light
sculpting the cold angles of his face. "Your intervention tonight
prevented a significant error. My thanks."
Alex visibly paled, his posture rigid with deference.
"Just doing what's right, Mr. Thorne. We've been friends a long time. It
was my responsibility." Inside, his knees felt like water. If Julian's
rage had found its target with that broken bottle... even the Thorne name might
not have smoothed over a murder charge in a crowded bar. And as the friend
who'd been there? His own future would have evaporated.
"You acted correctly," Silas acknowledged with a
slight, imperious nod. "A car is waiting. Go home. Rest."
Alex didn't need telling twice. He offered Julian a quick,
sympathetic shoulder squeeze – Good luck, man – before practically
fleeing the suffocating atmosphere.
Julian kept his gaze fixed on the scuffed floor tiles,
silent. His mind churned – dread of his father's inevitable reckoning warring
violently with the searing, intrusive memory: Elara, small and vulnerable,
cradled against his father's chest. The image burned, confusing and unsettling.
The sharp intake of breath behind him was his only warning.
A crushing force slammed into his abdomen. Pain exploded,
white-hot and blinding, driving the air from his lungs. He stumbled backwards,
crashing hard onto the unforgiving floor, ears ringing, forehead slick with
cold sweat. His vision blurred, then cleared on the polished toe of a Martin
boot inches from his face.
"Fool."
Silas towered over him, a dark monument of controlled fury.
His eyes, glacial and unyielding, pinned Julian where he lay, struggling to
push himself up on one trembling arm. "Did you consider the consequences?
The witnesses? The mess?" His voice was a low growl, more terrifying than
any shout. "Or do you possess the unique skill to silence an entire bar
full of people?"
He hadn't been driven to physical discipline in years. The
restraint it cost him vibrated in the air.
Julian clutched his agonising stomach, his face ashen, a
bitter, humourless laugh escaping his lips as he looked up at his father.
"Tell me, Dad," he gasped, pain and years of resentment twisting his
words, "I've wondered so many times... am I actually your son?"
Silas's expression remained as impassive as carved stone.
"If you weren't," he stated, his voice dangerously level, "that
would have been far more than a kick."
He'd held back. Significantly.
"Is that so?" Julian pushed himself up further,
defiance flaring through the pain. "Then why? If I am your son, why was I
dumped in Ashbourne like unwanted baggage? Why leave me to rot with
Great-Grandmother while you played the dutiful son for your father?" The
dam burst, years of isolation and perceived neglect flooding out in a raw,
ragged torrent. "Why have you never held me? Not once! You show more care
to your damn subordinates than your own blood! You mentor them, shape them,
keep them close... and I get exile! How was I supposed to learn control,"
his voice cracked, rising in pitch, thick with accusation and a desperate,
wounded fury, "when my own father couldn't be bothered to teach me?!"
The raw pain in his shout echoed in the cavernous hall, a
brutal indictment. Elara and Chloe flinched, the forced intimacy of this
familial rupture deeply uncomfortable.
Silas remained an unreadable monolith. Julian's anguish, his
justifications for his near-murderous rage, washed over him without leaving a
ripple.
"Ethan."
The name was a quiet command. As if conjured from the
shadows, Ethan materialised near the entrance, his usual mild demeanour
replaced by an unsettling, efficient coldness. "Mr. Thorne."
"Take Julian to the old mansion. Ensure the Old Lady
Thorne is not disturbed."
"Yes, Sir." Ethan moved with swift, economical
grace. His grip on Julian's shoulder was firm, impersonal, hauling the younger
man upright. Julian offered no resistance, his head bowed, the fight drained
out of him by pain and despair. As Ethan steered him towards the door, Julian
suddenly twisted back. His eyes, dark pools of complex, unreadable emotion –
pain, longing, accusation – locked onto Elara.
She had no time to decipher it. He was gone, swallowed by
the night.
"Miss Hayes." Silas's voice cut through the
lingering tension, closer now. He had taken several powerful strides towards
her. "A word. In private."
Elara's nerves screamed. The command was velvet over steel.
Refusal wasn't an option.
Outside, the bitter wind clawed at exposed skin, a stark
contrast to the cocoon of warmth inside the waiting Rolls Royce. Silas had
chosen a spot away from the bar's glare, shrouded in deeper shadows.
"Mr. Thorne," Elara began, her voice tight. She
sat angled towards the door, her back pressed lightly against the cool leather,
putting as much space as possible between herself and the overwhelming presence
beside her. "What did you want to discuss?" The streetlight outside
cast long, shifting shadows across the plush interior, etching Silas's sharp
features into an even more formidable sculpture. He'd been watching her since
they sat down, those dark, penetrating eyes fixed on her face for what felt
like an eternity, making her skin prickle.
He finally shifted, reaching out to press a button. Soft,
golden light bloomed from the rear seat lamps, banishing the intimate gloom but
doing nothing to dispel the tension. It suddenly felt unbearably warm. Elara
tugged subtly at the collar of her white cashmere coat.
"Were you frightened tonight?" His question was
casual, almost conversational, but the undercurrent was anything but.
"No," she answered quickly, wanting to deflect.
Yet, the image of Julian, wild-eyed with the broken bottle, flashed before her.
Guilt pricked. "The man Julian attacked... he was the one. The one who
took me that night. After... after the drug." She forced the words out,
her fingers twisting in the fabric of her skirt. "Julian... he must have
found out. He was... defending me." It felt crucial he understood the
spark that ignited the inferno.
Silas's gaze sharpened, intensifying the pressure in the
car. "Are you pleading his case for him, Elara?"
"No!" The denial was swift, instinctive. She met
his eyes, then looked down again. "I'm just... explaining what I know. If
I hadn't told him... maybe none of this would have happened." The weight
of potential guilt settled heavily. If Alex had been a fraction slower...
"His choices are his own," Silas stated, his voice
a low, resonant rumble that vibrated in the enclosed space. "He blames no
one but his own lack of control and foresight. There are countless ways to
deliver justice. He chose the most reckless, the most self-destructive."
His gaze held hers, unflinching. "Luck favoured him tonight. Next
time..."
The implication hung, cold and brutal. Elara shivered
despite the warmth. This man lived by calculation, his emotions locked down
tight, his actions measured. The idea of him ever losing control seemed
impossible.
A heavy silence descended, thick and charged. Elara focused
on her own hands in her lap, unaware of the subtle shift beside her. Silas had
moved fractionally closer. The air between them crackled with a sudden,
different kind of tension.
"Elly." The unexpected intimacy of the nickname
sent a jolt through her. His voice was lower now, a rough velvet caress.
"Do you think I'm old?"
Her head snapped up, eyes wide, lips parting in stunned
disbelief. The question hung, absurd and electrifying.
His hand moved. Not fast, but with deliberate, undeniable
intent. Warm fingers, surprisingly strong, gently lifted her chin, forcing her
gaze to meet his. Her breath hitched, trapped in her throat. Pinned against the
door, with nowhere to retreat, she could only stare as his face, those
impossibly sharp features, filled her vision, drawing inexorably nearer. The
world narrowed to the intensity in his dark eyes, the warmth of his touch on
her skin, and the terrifyingly thrilling proximity.
"Do you," he murmured, his breath a whisper
against her cheek, the scent of leather and something uniquely him enveloping
her, "want to see more clearly?"
The question wasn't about wrinkles. It was a challenge. An
invitation to the precipice. Elara's heart hammered against her ribs like a
trapped bird, every nerve ending screaming as his lips hovered, impossibly
close.