A heavy silence pressed down on the room, broken only by the faint,
ragged sound of Brooke's breathing. Silas's gaze was a physical weight on her,
cold and unyielding as granite. Minutes stretched like hours before his voice
cut through the tension, sharp and final.
"Tend to your wounds. The punishment stands." His eyes,
piercing and hawk-like, pinned her in place. "Remember, this is your last
chance."
Brooke met his stare, a flicker of fierce determination in her own.
There were no elaborate apologies, only a vow etched into her very soul.
"Thank you, Mr. Thorne." From this moment on, her life was his.
Another failure would be paid for with her last breath.
Later, freshly showered and wrapped in the soft, peach-coloured silk of
her loungewear, Elara stepped out of the guest room. She found Silas in the
small sitting room, the phone pressed to his ear. An aura of lethal chill
radiated from him, his jaw tight, his expression carved from ice.
Even when he sensed her presence and his eyes flicked toward her, the
sharpness in them didn't soften.
He gestured for her to come closer. Hesitantly, she closed the distance,
catching the tail end of his cold, detached words.
"Tell Valenti: if he wants to see his son breathe again, he will
hand over Steven Cohen. I'll be waiting in Oakhaven."
Steven Cohen. Julian. The names sent a jolt through her. Elara stopped a
few feet away, not wanting to intrude, but the seed of unease was already
planted.
The moment he ended the call, the predator's focus shifted entirely to
her. He closed the distance between them in a few strides.
"You didn't dry your hair." His voice was softer now, a low
rumble laced with exasperated concern. His fingers, surprisingly gentle,
brushed a damp, curly strand from her shoulder.
Elara self-consciously touched her hair. "It's fine. I'll use the
dryer in a bit."
"You're carrying my children, Elara. You can't afford to be
careless." The possessiveness in his tone was absolute. He guided her
firmly back to their master suite and into the lavish bathroom, positioning her
before the grand vanity.
The hum of the hairdryer filled the space. Silas's skilled fingers, the
veins prominent on the back of his hands, moved through her curls with a
practiced ease. Elara watched him in the mirror, mesmerised by the
contrast—this was the same man who, hours before, had his hand locked around a
man's throat, yet now he was tending to her with undivided attention.
"You're quite good at this," she murmured, a teasing note
entering her voice. "You must have had a lot of practice on other women's
curls."
Silas met her gaze in the reflection, a slow, knowing smile curving his
lips. "Jealous?"
"Please," she scoffed, her eyes darting away as she fiddled
with a strand of hair. "It was just an observation."
A soft, dismissive sound escaped him. Could she really not admit to that
small, endearing flicker of jealousy?
"Annabelle," he explained, his focus returning to her hair.
"When she was little, she was obsessed with her hair. Made me practice on
her for hours, teaching me how to style her 'precious curls.' I guess some of
it stuck." He set the dryer down, his hands moving to her waist, pulling
her back against his solid frame. Their reflected intimacy was stark and
undeniable. "Satisfied with that answer, darling?"
Elara only hummed noncommittally, her cheeks warming.
He chuckled, the sound vibrating through her, and lowered his head to
nip playfully at her earlobe.
"Ow!" She jolted, clutching her ear as she shot him a glare,
her face flushed. "You beast."
"I'm not a beast," he corrected, his voice dropping to a
husky, intimate whisper. His burning gaze held hers in the mirror. "I'm
the Big Bad Wolf, and I have a particular taste for tempting little red riding
hoods."
The blatant innuendo sent a wave of heat through her. This shameless
man!
Before she could form a retort, his mouth descended on hers, swallowing
her gasp. The kiss was a conquest—fierce, demanding, and utterly consuming.
When it finally gentled, leaving them both breathless, Elara's lips were
swollen, her eyes glazed with desire.
Silas's own control was visibly fraying. His Adam's apple bobbed as he
pressed one last, hard kiss to her mouth, cursing inwardly. He was no animal.
He could wait. He had to.
"Where did you go just now?" he asked, his thumb stroking her
temple.
"Nowhere," Elara breathed, her smile soft and private.
"My hair's dry. We should go."
She tried to push gently at his chest, but he didn't budge.
"You go. I need a shower." The raised eyebrow was all the
explanation she needed.
Blushing, she remembered a previous, dangerously intense
"shower" and issued a hurried warning. "Don't get the stitches
on your arm wet."
"Then help me." His smile was pure temptation.
"In your dreams," she retorted, ducking under his arm and
escaping before he could pull her into the steam and the heat. Silas watched
her flee, a low laugh rumbling in his chest. Was he really so terrifying?
The private jet touched down in Oakhaven the next afternoon, the
familiar landscape bringing a strange sense of homecoming. With Julian and
Ethan already gone, only Brooke remained by her side—a testament to Silas's
merciless form of mercy.
As the convoy wound its way up to the Winslow estate, the setting sun
bathed the grand villa in a golden glow. Seeing Ingrid and Annabelle waiting on
the steps, genuine smiles on their faces, Elara felt a tension she hadn't realised
she was carrying begin to ease.
Silas helped her from the car, his hand a steadying presence on her
back.
No sooner had her feet touched the gravel than Ingrid swept forward and
enveloped her in a warm, maternal embrace. "Welcome home, my dear."
"Thank you, Ingrid," Elara said, her smile genuine as she met
Annabelle's bright, cheerful gaze over Ingrid's shoulder.
"Elara! It's so good to see you! Welcome back!" Annabelle
beamed.
Seeing his wife held captive, Silas gently but firmly extracted her,
pulling her back into the circle of his arms.
Ingrid swatted his arm playfully. "You greedy boy, I can't even hug
my niece-in-law?" She then landed a mock-serious punch on his chest.
"And you. We are going to have a long talk about this little
adventure."
Elara flinched, her hand flying to the spot Ingrid had hit. "Are
you okay?"
"Don't worry about him, dear," Ingrid said, linking her arm
with Elara's and steering her toward the house. "He's built like a tank.
Come on, dinner is ready. You must be starving."
Annabelle stuck her tongue out at her brother. "Serves you right
for being so possessive! You only have eyes for Elara now." She then
skipped after them, calling out, "Elara, wait! Mum and I baked biscuits!
You have to try one!"
Silas stood for a moment, watching the three most important women in his
life walk away without a backward glance. A wry smile touched his lips. He was
being thoroughly abandoned on his own doorstep.
It was only a preview of what was to come.
Seated around the opulent dining table, a creamy, fragrant stew was
served in elegant bowls. Silas, his attention half on Elara, absently took a
few spoonfuls. The distinct, briny taste of oysters registered a moment later.
He looked up to find his aunt, Ingrid, watching him, a deeply knowing
and mischievous twinkle in her eyes.
"Enjoying the stew, my dear nephew?" Ingrid asked, her voice
sweet as honey. "It's a very... fortifying recipe. Your uncle, Arthur, was
always particularly fond of my oyster stew. Do make sure you finish every last
drop."