The door clicked shut behind Silas, sealing off the world of
formalities and familial expectations. Back in the sanctuary of their room, the
air felt lighter, warmer. His composed mask, perfectly maintained in his
grandmother's presence, softened into something more genuine.
He found Elara exactly where he'd left her, but the sight
never failed to steal his breath. Bathed in the soft glow of the bedside lamp,
she was curled against the headboard, her cream-coloured loungewear making her
look impossibly soft. A laptop was balanced on her knees, her brow furrowed in
concentration as her fingers flew across the keyboard.
"Feeling better?" His voice, a low rumble after the
evening's quiet, broke the silence.
She jumped slightly, then a smile instantly brightened her
features. "You're back."
As he crossed the room, she quickly set the laptop aside and
padded over to him in her fluffy slippers. Her eyes, sharp and perceptive,
scanned his face. A flicker of surprise crossed her features.
"You haven't been drinking?" she asked, her tone laced with
disbelief. At a Thorne family gathering, avoiding alcohol was a near miracle.
A faint, tired smile touched his lips. "Mhm." His arm slid
around her waist, guiding her back to the bed with a gentle pressure that made
her heart flutter. "Ethan played the part of my personal shield. Drank every
glass meant for me. He was worried the smell would make you nauseous again."
Elara's breath caught. The simple, thoughtful act, done for
her comfort, wrapped around her like a warm blanket. She tilted her head up to
meet his gaze, her own eyes sparkling.
"When did you learn to say things so sweetly?" she murmured,
her voice barely a whisper. "You're going to make my heart give out."
Silas leaned down, closing the distance between them until
his face was mere inches from hers. A dangerous, captivating glint shone in his
eyes.
"Then maybe you should taste," he suggested, his voice
dropping to a husky, intimate timbre that vibrated deep within her. "See if the
words are as sweet as they sound."
He was like a magnet, and she felt herself being pulled in.
The room suddenly felt too hot. She unconsciously wet her lips, a blush
creeping up her neck. "I… I suppose a taste couldn't hurt."
Her bashful audacity sent a jolt through him. He let out a
soft, strangled chuckle, his Adam's apple bobbing. "Tempting. But wait for me.
I may not smell of whiskey, but I reek of old incense. Let me wash it off
first." His gaze burned into her, heavy with promise. "Then you can have a
proper… taste."
The deliberate pause and the implication behind his words
made her cheeks flame. He made it sound like she was the impatient one!
She shot him a look, part reproach, part sheer
embarrassment, her almond eyes wide. It was a look that, under any other
circumstance, would have had him closing the distance between them in a
heartbeat. But a shadow of resignation passed behind his dark eyes. A bitter
reality check.
He'd already been careless once today, stealing a kiss that
morning. The pressure had been too much for the hidden wound, and after a long
day, the inflammation had set in, a dull, persistent throb he'd been ignoring.
"Weren't you going to bathe?" Elara said, noticing the deep
weariness etched on his face. "You look exhausted. You must not have slept on
the flight."
Concern overriding her shyness, she stood and gently pushed
him toward the ensuite bathroom. "Go on. I'll get your pyjamas for you."
The domesticity of her offer, so natural and caring, twisted
something in his chest. What he wouldn't give to be able to accept it, to have
her fuss over him without the spectre of his injury between them.
He turned and caught her shoulders, his expression softening
into a look of such fondness it made her breath catch. "Darling," he murmured,
his thumb stroking her arm. "If you keep this up, you'll spoil me rotten."
He gently steered her back toward the bed. "I can manage.
I'm not so far gone I can't pick out my own sleepwear. You focus on your work."
The endearment and the tender accusation of being spoiled
left her flustered and warm. She simply nodded, retrieving her laptop as a
shield, and pretended to be absorbed in her script until the bathroom door
closed behind him.
An hour later, Elara had finalised her notes on the business
draft and sent it back to the analysts. The project was gaining exciting
momentum. But a knot of concern tightened in her stomach. Silas was never this
long in the shower.
She walked to the bathroom door and knocked softly. "Silas?
Are you okay in there?"
Silence.
Her knock became more urgent. "Silas!"
Just as panic began to prickle at her skin, the lock
clicked. The door opened, releasing a cloud of steam. Silas stood there, his
hair dark and damp against his forehead. He'd tied the sash of his black robe
securely, almost defensively, unlike his usual casually open style.
"What's wrong?" he asked, his voice rough.
Elara's eyes zeroed in on his face. The steam hadn't brought
colour to his cheeks; instead, his skin was pale, his lips almost bloodless.
"You look terrible," she said, her worry sharpening her
tone. "What's really going on?"
He offered a weak smile. "Perceptive as always. It was
pouring in Italy. Got caught in the rain between meetings, and the plane's AC
was frigid. Must be coming down with a cold."
"A cold? Why didn't you say something?" She stepped forward,
rising on her toes to press the back of her hand to his forehead. It was cool
and clammy. "You don't feel feverish, but you're pale as a ghost."
She turned, intent on finding a servant to locate a medicine
kit, but he caught her wrist.
"Don't trouble yourself. I'll have Ethan bring something up.
He has what I need." He tried to sound reassuring, pulling her back toward the
bed. "It's nothing. Some medicine, a good night's sleep, and I'll be fine."
But Elara wasn't convinced. A man like Silas, who was never
sick, was often the worst kind of patient when he finally fell ill.
She insisted he lie down, and he didn't have the strength to
argue. She called Ethan, who, wisely fearing loose lips from the wine, sent Ben
instead.
When Ben arrived with a small paper bag, Elara thanked him
quickly and shut the door. She turned back to Silas, who was already lying with
his eyes closed, his breathing shallow.
It was only then, under the bright bedroom light, that she
got a proper look at the bag. It wasn't from the house's supplies. The labels
were in Italian. Prescription medication.
Her blood ran cold.
Her fingers trembled slightly as she pulled out the boxes.
Anti-inflammatories. Painkillers. Strong ones. Her jaw tightened. She said
nothing, simply measured out the pills with practiced efficiency and helped him
sit up to drink the water. He was too out of it to notice the storm brewing in
her eyes.
Once he'd swallowed the medicine and drifted into a fitful
sleep, Elara sat perfectly still in the chair beside the bed. The only sound
was his heavy, uneven breathing. The digital clock on the nightstand glowed,
marking the passage of a long, silent hour until she was sure he was deeply
under.
Then, with a resolve that turned her veins to ice, she
moved.
Her heart hammered against her ribs as she slowly,
carefully, pulled back the duvet. Her fingers went to the neatly tied sash of
his robe. She loosened it, her breath catching. Parting the dark fabric, she
revealed the strong planes of his chest. Nothing.
Gritting her teeth, she gently pushed the robe aside from
one shoulder.
And there it was.
A gasp stuck in her throat. His upper arm was a mess of
blood-soaked gauze, the skin around it an angry, swollen red. The infection was
visibly severe, a stark explanation for his pallor and weakness. This was no
cold. This was a wound he'd been hiding. A wound from wherever he'd really been
when he was "unreachable."
Tears of anger, fear, and betrayal welled in her eyes,
blurring the horrifying sight. She stared at his sleeping face, so vulnerable
yet so infuriatingly secretive.
Her hands balled into fists at her sides. When, she
wondered, her heart breaking, would he ever trust her with the truth?