It slides over my body like cool water. It fits perfectly, of course. It clings to my breasts, skims my waist, and ends mid-thigh. It leaves nothing to the imagination. The fabric is so thin I can see the outline of my nipples hardening in the chill.
I hug my arms around myself, feeling exposed. Vulnerable.
The bathroom door opens.
Silas steps out.
He has shed the suit jacket and the tie. His white dress shirt is unbuttoned at the collar, revealing the hollow of his throat and a hint of dark chest hair. He has rolled the sleeves up to his elbows, exposing thick forearms corded with muscle and veins.
He looks domestic. He looks lethal.
His eyes sweep over me, dark and heavy, landing on the lace bodice. A muscle feathers in his jaw.
"Perfect," he murmurs. The word sounds like a caress and a threat all at once.
He walks toward me. I hold my breath, bracing myself. Is he going to touch me? Is he going to take me right here, before dinner?
But he stops a foot away. He reaches out and simply adjusts the strap on my shoulder, his knuckles grazing my collarbone. The heat of his skin is a shock against mine.
"You look like moonlight," he says softly. "Dangerous. Ethereal."
He offers me his arm.
"Shall we?"
I look at his arm. The thick wrist. The large hand that could crush my windpipe or make me scream with pleasure.
I take it.
We walk out of the room, leaving the safety of the locked door behind. The hallway is dimly lit by sconces that look like medieval torches. The portraits on the walls seem to sneer at me as we pass—generation after generation of Vane men, all with the same cruel eyes.
We descend the grand staircase. The house is silent, save for the rhythmicclick-clackof Silas’s dress shoes and the soft pad of my bare feet on the marble.
"Does anyone else live here?" I ask, my voice small in the cavernous space.
"Just the staff," Silas answers. "Marta. The chef. The groundskeeper. And the guards, of course. But they stay on the perimeter. Inside these walls... it’s just us."
We reach the dining room.
It’s a massive hall, dominated by a table long enough to seat twenty people. A fireplace roars at one end, casting long, dancing shadows against the dark wood paneling. Above the fireplace hangs a massive oil painting of a storm at sea—violent, chaotic, beautiful.
The table is set for two.
Silver candelabras flicker, dripping wax onto the pristine white tablecloth. Crystal glasses sparkle in the firelight.
Silas leads me to the table. He pulls out a heavy, high-backed chair.
It’s on the side of the table.
He walks to the head of the table and sits down. He is close enough to touch, but far enough to impose a sense of formality.
Marta materializes from the shadows of the kitchen entrance. She moves silently, like a ghost in a housekeeper’s uniform. She places a platter in the center of the table.
Roast beef. Rare. Bloody. Surrounded by roasted root vegetables that glisten with oil.
"Thank you, Marta," Silas says. "Leave the wine. We will serve ourselves."
"Yes, sir." Marta nods to him, then to me. "Enjoy your meal, Mrs. Vane."
