I am glad he is holding me.
CHAPTER 10
THE BLACKOUT ZONE
POV: SILAS
Rain lashes against the windshield of the armored SUV, a relentless, rhythmic assault that matches the thrum of rage vibrating beneath my skin.
I drive fast. Too fast for the slick, winding roads of Long Island, but I trust my hands. I trust the machine. The only thing I don't trust right now is the world outside this steel cage.
Beside me, Ivy is asleep.
Or maybe she’s passed out. Her head lolls against the cool glass of the passenger window, her body curled into a tight, defensive ball in the oversized leather seat. She’s still wearing the cashmere leggings and the sweater I bought her—clothes that cost more than her father’s life is currently worth.
I glance at her. The passing streetlights cut across her face in strobes of orange and black, illuminating the tear tracks dried on her cheeks.
My grip tightens on the leather steering wheel until the knuckles turn white. The leather groans in protest.
Red roses.
The image of those flowers in my penthouse—my sanctuary—burns behind my retinas like a brand. Nikolai Sokolov didn't just send a threat; he violated my perimeter. He touched what is mine.
The courier who delivered them is currently in a warehouse in Queens, explaining his life choices to Luca. By the time I get the report, he will likely be unable to speak, but I will know who paid him, how much, and what time Nikolai wakes up in the morning.
I reach out with my right hand. I need to touch her.
It’s a compulsion I can’t stifle. Since the moment I saw her in that wedding dress, since the moment she signed the paper—even if her signature was already there—the tether between us has tightened. It’s no longer just obsession. It’s ownership.
My hand lands on her thigh.
She flinches in her sleep, a small, jerky movement, but she doesn't wake. She leans into the touch instinctively, seeking warmth.
Good.
I slide my hand higher, her thigh soft and yielding under the cashmere. I rest my palm there, feeling the steady heat of her skin. It grounds me. It quiets the noise in my head that screams for blood.
We pass the sign for the Hamptons. The houses get larger, the driveways longer, the gates more imposing. This is old money territory. Quiet money. The kind of money that buys silence.
The Vane Estate is at the very end of the point, isolated by three hundred acres of dense pine forest on one side and the churning Atlantic Ocean on the other. It is a fortress disguised as a mansion.
I slow the car as the iron gates loom out of the mist. They are twelve feet high, topped with spikes that look decorative but are razor-sharp.
The sensors read the chip in my car and the gates swing open silently.
I drive through. The gravel crunches under the tires, a sound like bones breaking.
The house rises from the darkness. It’s a gothic revival monstrosity of gray stone, turrets, and dark windows. It looks like it grew out of the cliffside. My grandfather built it to intimidate his enemies. I keep it to hide my secrets.
I bring the SUV to a halt in the circular driveway. The rain is coming down harder now, a deluge that washes away the sins of the city.
I kill the engine.
The silence that follows is heavy.
"Ivy," I say softly.
She stirs, blinking her eyes open. She looks disoriented. She looks around at the dark trees, the stone facade, the rain.
