Elara stood her ground, a statue of cool defiance. Her
delicate face was pale, and beneath the striking clarity of her eyes, faint
shadows of a sleepless night were etched. Upon closer look, the delicate red
tracery of fatigue was visible in their corners.
"Did you sleep at all last night?" Silas's voice
was thick with concern. He ignored her question, his left hand—still hovering
in the air—shooting out to gently encircle her wrist, pulling her a step
closer.
The warmth of his palm, now blessedly normal, seeped into
her skin. Elara's eyelashes fluttered, but she held her ground, a stubborn set
to her jaw.
"Silas, don't you dare change the subject. Answer my
question."
"I'm not," he insisted, a wry, helpless smile
touching his lips. "I just didn't want to frighten you. You're carrying
our child. The last thing I want is for you to be sick with worry."
A bitter laugh escaped her, devoid of any real humour.
"Is that so? If you wanted to spare me anxiety, then why did you vanish in
Italy without a word? Did you think I wouldn't worry? A wound like that... you
might hide it from me for a day, or a week, but did you plan on never
undressing in front of me again?"
Her hand trembled slightly as she gestured toward the open
collar of his shirt, her finger pointing accusingly at the bandage beneath.
"Or did you hope this would just magically disappear,
leaving no trace for me to ever find?" Her voice rose, trembling with a
mix of fear and fury. "You might get away with it once, Silas, but can you
hide from me forever?"
Her eyes glistened, red-rimmed as she glared at him.
The sight of her unshed tears was a physical blow to his
chest. "I'm sorry..." The words felt pathetic, inadequate. He had no
right to ask for her forgiveness, but a desperate need to hold her, to feel her
solid and real in his arms, overwhelmed him. He shifted, moving to swing his
legs off the bed.
"Don't you dare move!" Her voice was a whip-crack,
stopping him instantly. "Do you actually want to recover?"
He looked at her—her face a mask of ice, but her heart so
obviously soft. He gestured slightly with his right arm, his tone turning
deliberately, almost comically, innocent. "But Elly, it's my arm that's
injured, not my leg. Sitting up is uncomfortable. I just want to hold
you."
Elara stared at him for a beat, then let out a sharp,
exasperated laugh. The sixteen-year age gap had never felt more pronounced. Was
this man, this formidable, dangerous man, actually trying to use puppy-dog eyes
on her while she was in the middle of a righteous fury?
Dream on.
"Uncle Thorne," she said, her voice dripping with
sarcasm as she shoved her hands deep into her trench coat pockets and took a
deliberate step back. "Don't try that stunt on me. We are not finished
here."
The word 'uncle' made him wince internally. He'd been
demoted from husband to a geriatric relative in one fell swoop.
"Elly..." He drew a steadying breath, his
expression shifting into one of deadly seriousness. "First, answer this
for me. When you saw the gunshot wound last night, were you afraid? Did you
want to run away from me?"
Elara's defiant gaze wavered. She looked down, studying the
pattern on the rug for a long moment before speaking, her voice barely a
whisper. "Of course I was afraid. It was bloody and violent, and it turned
my stomach." She lifted her eyes, and the raw fear in them stole his
breath. "But what terrified me more was that it was on you. And the
chilling certainty that it could happen again."
She took a shaky breath, her composure cracking. "In
that moment, I truly understood the world you live in. It's a world where a
phone call in the night could mean you're never coming home. Where a bullet
meant for your arm could just as easily find your heart..." A violent
shudder ran through her. "Can you even understand that kind of fear?"
The pain in Silas's chest was acute. This was exactly why he
had wanted to shield her.
"And part of me does want to run," she admitted,
the confession tearing from her. "But even if I did, you would still be
the father of my children. Would my leaving magically make your world any less
dangerous? Would the bullets suddenly stop flying?"
The pressure in Silas's chest was unbearable. She was right.
He had dragged her into his darkness without a warning, and now she was trapped
in it with him.
"Elly, I am so sorry for pulling you into my world
without preparing you." He swung his legs off the bed and stood, this time
unchallenged. He took a step toward her, his gaze intense, pleading. "Give
me a chance now. Let me explain properly."
Their eyes remained locked in a silent battle of wills
before Elara finally relented, her voice stiff. "Fine. But lie back down
first."
"Can I hold you while I talk?" he murmured, the
request soft, almost vulnerable. "I'm a little afraid... of you walking
away."
He was afraid? The man who took bullets without a sound?
Elara narrowed her almond-shaped eyes, the urge to roll them almost
overwhelming. The audacity of this old man, playing the victim card. It was
shameless.
"On second thought, maybe you should keep it to
yourself. I'm not sure I want to hear it after all," she retorted, her
tone icy.
Seeing he had pushed too far, Silas conceded with a resigned
sigh. "Alright, alright. I've dug my own grave." His gaze swept the
sterile medical room. "But not here. Let's go back to our villa."
Back in the master suite of the main villa, the air was
still thick with unspoken words. Silas's eyes scanned the perfectly made bed,
noting the absence of her scent on the pillows.
"You didn't sleep here last night?" he asked, his
gaze settling on her as she perched on the sofa far from the bed.
"I slept in the guest room," she stated flatly.
Silas went completely still. Separate rooms? A dark,
possessive chill flickered in his eyes. He moved to sit beside her on the sofa,
but she was on her feet in an instant, moving to the opposite end.
"Stay on your side. Keep your distance," she
commanded, pointing to the vast expanse of sofa between them.
Pressing his tongue to his cheek, Silas obeyed, placing the
manila folder he'd carried in onto the coffee table. A no-man's-land now
separated them.
"Talk," Elara said, turning sideways to lean
against the armrest, tucking a cushion behind her back for support.
Watching her, a resigned smile touched his lips before he
began, his voice calm and measured. "The Winslow family's empire in
Oakhaven was built in the underworld. In their heyday, they were untouchable.
But you don't rise to that height without making powerful enemies, all waiting
for a chance to tear you down. When the political winds shifted and the city
cracked down on organised crime, many of those enemies saw their
opportunity..."
He paused, his eyes searching hers. "Do you know why
I'm so close to Ingrid, and why Arthur took the Winslow name?"
The sudden shift caught her off guard. "Why?"
"Because she was the last Winslow standing," Silas
said, his voice dropping. "After my grandfather, my two uncles, and my
mother were murdered by their rivals, Ingrid was all that was left. To avenge
them, she dropped out of university and took control of the crumbling Winslow
empire. She forced the underworld to take a young girl seriously."
Elara was frozen, her anger momentarily eclipsed by the
sheer weight of the story. The image of a young Ingrid, shouldering a blood
feud and a criminal dynasty, was staggering.
"Somehow, she held the family together, but it was a
shell of its former self. Ingrid saw it as a chance to rebrand, to legitimise
the business. It took years. Things only started to truly stabilise once I was
old enough to help." He leaned forward slightly. "The Winslows still
have influence, Elara, but we have rules. No trafficking. No drugs.
Never."
He spoke with a quiet conviction that was impossible to
disbelieve. Elara listened, her heart aching for the girl Ingrid had been, but
she knew this was only the preamble.
"Aren't you curious about why I was shot in
Italy?" Silas asked, a faint, grim smile on his lips. He saw the flicker
of anticipation in her eyes and continued, his tone gentle yet stark. "The
Winslows steer clear of vices, but we deal in one thing: arms. I've had a
fascination for the mechanics of them since I was a boy. I design them, refine
them, manufacture them. I sell them to governments and private
militaries."
Elara stared, her mind struggling to reconcile the man in
front of her with the world he was describing. It was like he was speaking a
different language, describing a planet she'd only ever seen in movies.
"The people who shot me were the Valenti family. A
powerful Mafia clan from Italy. Our business interests... conflict. They see me
as a threat to be eliminated. They found out I was in Italy and seized their
chance."
He finished, his dark eyes watching her, waiting for her
reaction, for the fear or disgust he dreaded to see. The silence in the room
was absolute.