The silence in the opulent living room was thicker than fog, heavy
enough to choke on. Every gaze—from the judgmental to the morbidly curious—was
nailed to Silas, waiting for the detonation.
Elara was the only one looking at him not as a spectacle, but as a man.
She tilted her head, her thoughtful eyes searching his. He met her gaze, and in
those bottomless dark pools, she saw not panic, but a chilling, absolute calm.
"You believe his words?" The question was for her alone, a soft,
intimate rumble that seemed to mock the tension in the room. He didn't even
glance at Julian, treating his son's outburst like the buzzing of a
insignificant fly.
He slowly let her hand go, the movement languid, almost bored. Shrugging
off his tailored coat, he tossed it onto a priceless antique sofa as if it were
a rag.
Elara shook off her daze, her voice firm despite the pounding in her
chest. "He's a grown man, Silas. No one held a gun to his head. His choices are
his own." The idea that Silas had been some puppet master, that he'd wanted her
back then… it was laughable. And pathetic.
A ghost of a smile, dark and approving, touched Silas's lips. "Hmm."
That simple sound was the match to Julian's fuse. Watching them, seeing
their private, unshakable bond, was a special kind of torture. The humiliation
of being ignored by his father was bad enough, but Elara's immediate,
unwavering defence of him? It shattered something inside Julian.
She chooses him. After everything, she chooses him.
A corrosive, bitter jealousy surged through his veins. His hands
clenched into fists, nails biting into his palms so hard he drew blood. The
urge to smash it all, to tear down the perfect, cold image of the great Silas
Thorne, was a screaming need in his head.
"Did I not warn you to restrain your behaviour?" Silas's voice cut
through the room, cold and sharp as a shard of ice. His gaze, when it finally
landed on Julian, was so dismissive it was worse than any shout.
Julian's jaw clenched so tight it ached. "You did. So when I failed to
listen, your solution was to just… steal her for yourself?"
The memory of them at the "Taboo" bar flashed in his
mind—Silas's hand on Elara's waist, the electric, unspoken thing that crackled
between them. He'd been blind. Now, he saw it all too clearly.
A low, derisive sound escaped Silas. "Steal what was never yours to
begin with, boy?" Dressed in a simple black turtleneck, he was a portrait of
lethal grace and untouchable authority. "Everything you are, everything you
have, exists because I allow it."
The verbal blow was a physical thing. Julian actually staggered back a
step, the blood draining from his face, leaving him pale and gaunt.
"I brought Elara here to make an announcement. Not to ask for a
consensus." Silas's eyes, cold and unflinching, swept over the family before
locking back onto his son. "And certainly not to ask for your blessing,
Julian."
His tone dropped, becoming lethally quiet. "Decades of your
great-grandmother's coddling, and you still lack the most fundamental
understanding of respect. Or consequences."
The old lady flinched as if struck. Her face, a roadmap of wrinkles,
flushed with impotent rage. Without a word, she stood, her silence louder than
any protest, and retreated upstairs. She knew the unassailable power of the man
who led their family.
Julian lowered his head, hiding the storm of humiliation and raw hatred
in his eyes.
"Julian." Silas's voice was different now—cool, measured, and utterly
terrifying. "Since my relationship with Elara offends you so deeply, I'll grant
you a chance to voice your objection. Properly."
Julian's head snapped up, his eyes blazing. "What chance?"
The Winslow couple leaned forward, forgotten teacakes in hand. Annabelle
practically vibrated with excitement. But Elara's heart hammered against her
ribs, a frantic drum warning of danger.
"We compete," Silas stated, his voice echoing in the cavernous room.
"You win, and I will remove myself from the equation. You lose…" He paused,
letting the weight of the silence crush down. "…Then you will excise this
childish obsession from your mind. You will look at Elara, and you will see
only your stepmother. You will address her with the respect that title demands.
Is that clear?"
Julian's pupils dilated. The challenge was a trap, and he knew it, but
the gauntlet had been thrown. His pride, what was left of it, was on the line.
The silence stretched, taut and painful.
"What's the competition?" he finally gritted out.
"Flying daggers." Silas rolled up his sleeves with precise, deliberate
movements, revealing corded forearms. "It's been a while. I hope your aim has
improved."
A flicker of desperate pride ignited in Julian's eyes. This was it. The
one thing his father had ever taught him. The skill he'd honed for years,
desperate for a shred of approval, for a sign he was worthy of being his heir.
"Yes!" Annabelle burst out, clapping her hands. "Oh, this is brilliant!
I haven't seen you play in forever, Cousin Silas!"
Elara's blood turned to ice. She didn't need the details. The very
phrase 'flying daggers' in this context screamed of danger.
They moved to the vast, floodlit courtyard, a modern-day gladiator arena
hidden behind ancient walls. Silas's eyes scanned the perimeter before settling
back on Julian, a predator sizing up his prey.
"Let's change the rules. One throw. No second chances. Winner takes
all."
He didn't wait for agreement, simply gestured. A maid hurried over,
bearing a silver platter with two perfect, deep-red apples.
The collective gasp was almost synchronized. Ingrid's hand flew to her
mouth. "Silas! Have you lost your mind? You can't be serious!"
"I am never not serious," he replied, his focus absolute. "Well, Julian?
Do you have the stomach for a real wager?"
Julian's breath hitched. The challenge was insane. Suicidal. And it
spoke directly to the wounded, reckless part of his soul. "Do it," he hissed,
his voice trembling with adrenaline.
"Good." Silas nodded once. "Courage is the one thing I won't fault you
for."
The daggers were produced—twin slivers of cold, polished steel. Silas
took his, and the blade became an extension of his hand, spinning in a fluid,
mesmerizing dance of light.
Elara's fists were clenched so tight her knuckles were white. This was a
nightmare. One tremor, one moment of misjudgment…
"Silas…" The word was a breathless plea. Her hand crept to the small of
his back, clinging to the soft wool of his sweater.
He turned. The ice in his gaze thawed the slightest bit when he saw her
face, pale and terrified. He cupped her cheek, his thumb stroking away her
fear. "Look at me, Elara. It will be over in a heartbeat. Wait for me. If it's
too much, don't look. Just trust me."
"I do," she whispered, the words a fragile vow.
Their moment of connection was the final insult. Julian's jealousy
curdled into something dark and vicious. The dagger in his hand felt heavy with
intent.
"I'll go first," Silas announced.
He walked exactly five paces, turned, and placed the apple squarely on
his own head. He didn't flinch. He didn't even blink. He just stood there, a
mountain of unshakeable will, his black eyes pinning his son in place.
"Begin." The command was soft, yet it seemed to silence the very wind.
"Show me the man I made."
Julian's knuckles were bone-white. He sucked in a sharp, ragged breath, his
eyes squeezing shut for a fraction of a second against the image of his
father's unwavering confidence—a confidence that felt like a dare, a taunt, a
final test he was terrified to fail. When they opened, they were filled with a
terrifying mix of focus and fury. He raised his arm, the steel point aimed at
his father's head.
Elara's heart stopped. A silent scream caught in her throat, trapped
behind the hand that had instinctively flown to her mouth. This wasn't a game
of skill. It was a brutal test of nerve, a horrific exchange of trust and
control, life and death held in the balance of a single, throwing arc.
The world dissolved until there was only the two of them, bathed in the
harsh stadium lights, the apple a bright red bullseye on a crown of dark hair.
The air itself held its breath.
And the throw was coming.