The dining room was steeped in the soft glow of the evening, but the
atmosphere at the table was thick with unspoken tension. Silas's gaze dropped
to the ornate porcelain bowl placed before him. A rich, aromatic steam rose
from the contents—oysters, herbs, and other ingredients he recognised all too
well. It was a classic recipe, one known for restoring a man's core vitality
and... marital vigour.
His lips twitched, a dark, incredulous laugh threatening to escape. Did
he truly look so… deficient?
From across the table, Ingrid watched his reaction, a knowing glint in
her eyes. She mistook his stunned silence for wounded pride. "A man must
look after his health, Silas," she said, her voice dripping with false
innocence. "I've instructed the kitchen to prepare a special dish for you
each day. A different recipe, so you won't grow bored. They say a consistent
course for half a month works wonders."
Her eyes sparkled with a fervent hope that was almost palpable. In her
mind, Annabelle was still a child; it would be a decade before she could
provide an heir. But Silas… he was here now. With a wife already by his side
and his health… fortified… he could easily secure the Winslow lineage. The
family was too thin, too vulnerable.
Elara, seated beside him, felt a pang of confusion. She glanced between
Silas's rigid profile and Ingrid's hopeful smile. "Ingrid means
well," she offered softly, playing the peacemaker. She assumed it was for
his recent gunshot wound. "Just bear with it. It will help you recover
faster."
Silas turned his head slowly, his deep, almond-shaped eyes capturing
hers. The sheer, genuine concern in her innocent gaze made him want to laugh
and groan simultaneously. Did this naive wife of his have any idea what kind of
fire she was stoking?
Ingrid beamed, seizing the opportunity. "You see? Even your own
wife is urging you to drink it. You mustn't disappoint her."
Elara's smile faltered. Something in the way Ingrid phrased that,
coupled with the barely suppressed smirk on Arthur's face beside her, sent a
trickle of cold suspicion down her spine. This wasn't about a simple recovery.
She turned back to Silas, her eyes wide and questioning. What is going
on?
Silas let out a low, resigned chuckle. "Nothing for you to worry
about, little one," he murmured, his voice a soft rumble. "It's just
that this particular dish… shouldn't be taken lightly. And I can assure you, I
have no need for it."
Another spoonful, and he'd be spending the night in an ice bath.
His gaze flickered back to Ingrid, a silent, stern warning in his eyes.
Enough.
Ingrid met his look with a defiant glare of her own. Serves you right
for being so stubborn about your pride.
The rest of the meal passed in a tense, quiet hum. It wasn't until
later, when Silas guided Elara up the grand staircase to their private wing,
that she found her nerve. She grabbed his arm, pulling him to a stop in the
hallway, her gaze fixed on his.
"Silas," she began, her voice a hushed whisper. "That
soup at dinner… What was it really for? It wasn't just for general strength,
was it?"
A deep, resonant laugh escaped him. He reached out, tangling his fingers
gently in her soft hair. "My sweet, oblivious wife," he teased, his
eyes crinkling at the corners. "What did you think it was?"
"To help you heal from your injury!" she insisted, swatting
his hand away and smoothing her ruffled locks.
He leaned in close, his warm breath fanning her ear as his fingers found
her delicate earlobe, giving it a soft pinch. "It's to make sure I'm ready
for you, baby. Every last drop." His voice dropped to a husky, intimate
whisper that made her shiver. "Now, tell me… do you really think I should
be drinking that?"
The final syllable was a warm puff against her skin, his dark eyes
glinting with a dangerous mixture of amusement and pure, unadulterated heat.
Elara's face flamed a brilliant, mortified crimson. The pieces clicked
into place with horrifying clarity—her own well-meaning words at the table,
Ingrid's knowing smiles, Arthur's suppressed laughter. They all thought she was
a desperately insatiable wife, pushing her husband to perform!
His fingertip gently traced the heated skin at the corner of her eye.
"It's not that the soup is bad," he continued, his voice a low,
seductive thrum. The other hand captured her delicate one, pressing her palm
against the hard, warm plane of his cheek. "But you're carrying our baby.
What if I drink it and can't control myself tonight?"
He paused, letting the implication hang heavily in the air between them.
His eyes darkened. "Or perhaps… you'd be willing to help me find a
different way to… release the energy?"
Elara felt her palm burn where it touched his skin. Her face was on
fire, her heart hammering against her ribs. She wished the floor would open up
and swallow her whole.
"You…" she stammered, yanking her hand back as if scorched.
"You can deal with it yourself!"
Shooting him a look of utter flustered fury, she spun on her heel and
fled into the walk-in closet, seeking refuge amongst the racks of clothes.
Silas watched the flustered little rabbit disappear, a low chuckle
rumbling in his chest. The sight of her so adorably ruffled never failed to
amuse him. But as his gaze dropped to his own hands, the smile twisted into a
wry grimace. The pleasure of taking matters into his own hands was a poor,
lonely substitute for the heaven of her touch.
"Pack your things and take a hot bath, baby," he called toward
the closet, his voice returning to its usual, controlled tone. "I need to
have a word with Ingrid. When I return, I'll do some proper prenatal education
for our two little ones."
From within the closet, Elara's muffled voice came back, laced with
sweet retaliation. "Take your time! After your chat, maybe you should go
for a long night run. Burn off some of that… energy."
She'd noticed, with a sense of impending doom, that he had finished
nearly the entire bowl.
Silas understood her little scheme perfectly. He shook his head, a
mixture of exasperation and fondness swelling in his chest, before turning to
face the real battle that awaited him.
He found Ingrid in the study of her villa, the door wide open. She was
meticulously dusting a cabinet that held a single, cherished artifact: a framed
portrait of his parents, Ingrid, Arthur and a much younger version of himself.
"Close the door," she commanded without turning around, her
voice stripped of its earlier maternal warmth, replaced by a steely authority.
Silas obeyed, the soft click of the latch echoing in the quiet room. He
walked over and picked up the photograph, his thumb stroking the glass over his
parents' smiling faces.
Ingrid turned, her piercing gaze fixed on him, a storm brewing in her
eyes. "Your grandmother called me last night," she began, her voice
heavy. "She was hysterical, Silas. Wailing that you personally broke
Julian's arm, that you tried to strangle him, and that now, heedless of his
life, you've shipped him off to God-knows-where to be tortured."
Silas didn't flinch. He carefully set the frame back in its place.
"Mhm," he acknowledged, his voice flat. "She wasn't wrong."
Ingrid's frown deepened, lines of worry and anger etching her face.
"The old woman only said it was because of Elara. A tiger may be fierce,
but it does not devour its cubs! Yet you would do this to your own son? She
swore she would come here herself to drag Julian back from whatever hell you've
sent him to."
She stepped closer, her voice dropping to a fierce, urgent whisper.
"So, do I not deserve an explanation? I refuse to believe the boy I helped
raise is so cold-blooded as to harm his own flesh and blood. I trust you know
in your heart that I deserve the truth."
Their gazes locked, a silent war of wills in the dimly lit study. The
light from the desk lamp carved harsh shadows across Silas's face, highlighting
the rigid tension in his jaw. The air grew thick, charged with the weight of
the secret he was about to unveil.
His thin lips parted, and the words that emerged were quiet, precise,
and shattered the very foundation of their world.
"I had the DNA test run again," he said, his voice dangerously
calm. "The results are definitive." He paused, letting the silence
stretch taut between them. "Julian is not my son."