COLD STEEL
POV: SILAS
I wake before the sun.
It’s a habit born of necessity and honed by paranoia. In my world, sleeping in means dying. You wake up, you check the perimeter, you check your weapons, and then—only then—do you allow yourself to exist.
But this morning, my routine is disrupted.
I don't check my phone first. I don't reach for the Glock on the nightstand.
I look at her.
Ivy is sprawled across the other side of the massive mahogany bed, tangled in the duvet. She’s sleeping deeply, the kind of exhaustion that comes after a complete nervous system overload. Her hair is a chaotic halo of caramel waves against the white pillowcase. Her lips are slightly parted, her breath hitching softly every few seconds.
She looks peaceful.
It’s a lie, of course. Inside that pretty head, I know she’s probably running through that dark forest she mentioned, chasingshadows. But here, in the gray pre-dawn light of the Hamptons, she looks like she belongs to the bed. Like she belongs to me.
I reach out and trace the line of her shoulder with my fingertip, hovering just above the skin so I don't wake her.
Last night was a victory. A messy, depraved victory, but a win nonetheless. She ate. She came. She slept. The trifecta of basic needs, all provided by my hand. She hates me for it—I could see the loathing in her eyes as I carried her up the stairs—but hate is a passionate emotion. Hate is close to love. Indifference is the only enemy I can't fight, and Ivy is anything but indifferent.
I slide out of bed, the cold hardwood floor a shock to my bare feet.
I dress in silence. Tactical cargo pants, combat boots, a black thermal henley that hugs my chest. This isn't the boardroom. The Estate requires a different uniform. Here, I am not the CEO. I am the warlord guarding the castle.
I grab my coffee from the machine in the hallway—Marta is always awake before me, silent and efficient—and head out to the terrace.
The storm has passed, leaving behind a sky the color of a fresh bruise. The ocean below churns, angry and gray, slamming against the cliffs with a rhythmic violence that soothes me.
I scan the tree line. The cameras are active. The motion sensors are green. The guards are at their posts.
But something feels... off.
It’s an instinct. A prickle at the base of my skull. It’s the same feeling I got before the Sokolovs tried to hit my shipment in Jersey last year. The air is too heavy. The seagulls are too quiet.
Nikolai knows where I live. He knows the Estate. He wouldn't be stupid enough to attack it directly—a frontal assault on this place would be suicide—but he’s a patient man. He’s a hunter.
I sip the black coffee, bitter and scalding.
I need to prepare her.
Keeping her in a gilded cage is fine for the city, but out here, nature is harsher. And if the walls fail—ifIfail—she needs to be more than just a pretty ornament. She needs to be dangerous.
I finish the coffee and walk back inside.
Ivy is stirring. She stretches, a long, feline movement that pulls the sheet down, exposing the curve of her breast.
I watch her. I let myself look. I own this view.
Her eyes flutter open. She sees me standing at the foot of the bed, fully dressed, staring.
She freezes. The peace vanishes, replaced instantly by the guarded, fearful look of the prey.
"Good morning, Mrs. Vane," I say.
She pulls the sheet up to her chin. "You’re staring."
