A hand shot out from the shadowed hallway, clamping over her mouth and
yanking her backward. A scream was smothered against a palm that smelled
faintly of expensive cologne and cold sweat.
Her heart hammered against her ribs like a trapped bird.
"Are you pregnant?"
Julian's voice was a dark, venomous whisper in her ear. The question, so
blunt and accusing, sent a jolt of pure ice through her veins. Last night. He'd
noticed. Of course he had. Her and Vivian both bolting for the bathroom at the
Thorne ancestral home had been a red flag she'd foolishly hoped he'd ignore.
She thrashed in his grip, angry, muffled sounds escaping her nostrils as
she glared at him.
"Stop fighting me, Elly," he hissed, his grip tightening.
"I don't want to hurt you. Just answer the question. Nod if it's yes.
Shake your head if it's no."
Elara forced herself to still, her chest heaving as she dragged in
ragged breaths through her nose. His eyes, dark and desperate, bored into hers.
"Is it that bastard's?" he gritted out, the words laced with a
pain that surprised her. "From the night you were drugged? Did he get you
pregnant?"
Her blood ran cold. He thinks it's some random man's. He hasn't
connected it to his father. Relief and terror warred within her. She gave a
frantic, desperate shake of her head.
No. No. No.
Julian's jaw tightened, his eyes searching hers for a lie. He wanted to
believe her, but the doubt was a festering wound. "I don't believe
you," he whispered, and his free hand moved from her arm, descending
towards her abdomen.
No!
Elara's eyes widened in pure panic. As his fingers brushed the fabric of
her coat, she put all her strength into shoving him away. At that exact moment,
a furious cry split the air.
"Get away from her!"
A blur of motion, a sickening thud, and Julian was thrown backward,
crashing into a console table with a grunt of pain, his arm hanging at a
grotesque, unnatural angle.
Elara's legs gave way, but Brooke was there in an instant, catching her,
her face a mask of fury and self-recrimination.
"Mrs. Thorne! I'm so sorry! Are you alright? Are you hurt?"
Brooke's voice was tight. She had failed. One moment of lowered guard, one
assumption that this gated community was safe, and she had almost allowed a
catastrophe.
Elara clung to Brooke's arm, her breath coming in shaky gasps.
"I'm... I'm okay," she managed, her voice trembling. Then her gaze
hardened, locking onto Julian, who was struggling to his feet, cradling his
dislocated arm. A cold, sharp fury replaced her fear. "Brooke. Restrain
him."
Julian clutched his shoulder, his face pale with agony and rage.
"Elara, how dare you! This is treason!"
"You laid hands on me," she shot back, her voice like shards
of glass. "You think I care about daring? Tie him up, Brooke."
Before Julian could process the order, Brooke moved with lethal
efficiency, forcing his good arm behind his back and securing him to the sturdy
trunk of an ornamental tree in the courtyard.
Fifteen minutes later, the roar of an engine and the screech of tires on
asphalt announced an arrival. A black Cullinan stood menacingly outside the
gate, as dark and silent as a predator. The back door flew open and Silas
Thorne emerged, his black coat sweeping around him like the wings of a vengeful
angel, scattering fallen leaves in his wake.
In the courtyard, Vivian was dabbing a tissue at the cold sweat on
Julian's brow, her voice shrill as she screeched at Elara. "His arm is
dislocated! What more do you want? When the old lady hears—"
"Shut your mouth!" Elara snapped, her voice cutting through
the air like a whip. She didn't even look at Vivian, a silent command to Brooke
enough to make the other woman shrink back.
But then Elara heard it—the familiar, decisive crunch of footsteps on
the gravel path. Her head whipped toward the gate.
And there he was.
The moment his tall, powerful frame filled the entrance, the icy wall of
fear around her heart shattered. A wave of overwhelming relief and visceral
safety washed over her, stinging her eyes with unshed tears.
She didn't think; she just moved. Launching herself from the steps, she
flew into his arms, burying her face in the solid warmth of his chest, her
slender arms locking around him as if he were her only anchor in a stormy sea.
Silas felt the fine tremors wracking his wife's body. The storm of fury
in his eyes banked for a moment, replaced by a fierce, protective tenderness.
His arms enveloped her, one large hand cradling the back of her head.
"Shhh, my love. I'm here now," he murmured into her hair, his
lips brushing her crown. "No one will hurt you. I promise."
Elara simply nodded against his chest, inhaling his familiar, safe
scent, letting it steady her racing heart.
When her breathing had evened out, Silas gently loosened his embrace.
His gaze, deep and intense, scanned her face, and his thumb gently wiped away a
single, traitorous tear from the corner of her eye.
"Now," he said, his voice deceptively soft. "Would you
like to wait in the car with Brooke?"
She shook her head, her own eyes hardening with a glint of steel he recognised
all too well. "No. I want to stay. I want to watch."
A flicker of dark approval crossed his features. Good, he thought. My
child should know its mother is a lioness, and its father is the storm. He gave
a single, sharp nod. "Very well."
Then, he turned. The shift was instantaneous. The tenderness vanished,
replaced by a chilling stillness that was more terrifying than any shout. The
air itself grew cold.
Julian watched him come, each step a death knell. The intimate embrace
had been a fresh torture, but this—this silent, gathering fury—was worse than
the fire in his shoulder.
Silas didn't rush. He stopped a foot away, his dark eyes sweeping over
the scene: his son, bound to a tree, his arm grotesquely dislocated. Then his
gaze returned to Julian, and it was abyssal.
Vivian let out a shrill, pathetic sound as Silas's hand shot out. It
wasn't a punch. It was a claim. His large hand clamped around Julian's throat,
slamming his head back against the tree trunk with a dull thud.
The air left Julian's lungs in a rush. He choked, his good hand feebly
scrabbling at the unyielding vice around his neck.
"Julian," Silas's voice was chillingly calm, a stark contrast
to the violence of his action. "It seems my previous warnings were not
clear enough. You touched what is mine."
He leaned in closer, his face inches from his son's, his eyes holding
Julian's terrified gaze.
"She. Is. My. Wife," he enunciated every word, his voice
dropping to a lethal whisper. "What delusion gave you the right to lay a
hand on her? To put yours on her womb?"
Julian felt the pressure increase, spots dancing in his vision. A
bitter, broken smile twisted his lips. He forced his eyes open, meeting the
terrifying darkness he now believed could never hold love for him.
"Father..." he gasped, the word a ragged plea. "Tell
me... am I even your son? Your real son?"
The question hung in the air, heavy and profound.
Silas's expression didn't change, but the air around him seemed to
crackle with a new, dangerous energy. His gaze deepened, becoming utterly
unreadable. He leaned in so close that only Julian could hear the final,
devastating whisper, his thumb a relentless pressure on his son's windpipe.
"What," Silas asked, his voice dangerously quiet, "has
Steven Cohen been telling you?"