I reach the top of the stairs. I grip the banister, descending slowly into the foyer. The lightning casts long, stretching shadows across the marble floor that twist and writhe.
I see a faint glow coming from under the double doors of the library on the ground floor.
Firelight.
I rush toward it, pushing the heavy oak doors open with both hands.
The warmth hits me first. A wave of heat from the massive stone fireplace where a fire is roaring, defying the storm outside. Thesmell of burning oak, old leather, and scotch fills my nose—a scent that has become inextricably linked to him.
Silas is there.
He is sitting in a wingback leather chair facing the fire, his back to the door. He’s in his shirtsleeves, the white fabric glowing orange in the firelight. A crystal tumbler sits on the small table beside him.
He doesn't turn around.
"You took three minutes longer than I expected," he says. His voice is low, calm, cutting through the thunder like a blade.
I stand in the doorway, shivering, clutching my arms. "The lights went out."
" The storm knocked out the main transformer," he explains, taking a sip of his drink. " The backup generators will kick in for the security systems and the perimeter fence, but I prefer the house dark. It feels... honest."
"I hate it," I whisper.
"I know."
He turns his head then, the firelight catching the sharp angle of his cheekbone and the jagged scar through his eyebrow. He looks demonic. He looks beautiful.
"Come here, Ivy."
It’s the same command as always. Come. Sit. Eat. Stay.
And just like always, I obey. Not because I have to, but because my legs are shaking so badly I need to sit down, and the only chair in the room is the one opposite him.
I walk across the Persian rug, the wool soft under my feet. I sit on the edge of the leather sofa, tucking my legs up under me, trying to get as close to the fire as possible without getting too close to him.
Silas watches me. His eyes are dark pools reflecting the dancing flames. He looks relaxed, unbothered by the chaos raging outside.
"You’re shaking," he notes.
"It’s loud," I say, flinching as another boom of thunder shakes the floor. "I don't like the noise."
"Fear of loud noises is a primal instinct," Silas muses, swirling the liquid in his glass. "It triggers the fight or flight response. But since you can't fly..."
"...I have to fight," I finish for him, remembering the gun.
"Or," he says softly, "you have to find shelter."
He holds his glass out to me. "Drink."
I hesitate. "What is it?"
"Scotch. Single malt. Aged eighteen years. It will burn, but it will warm you."
I lean forward and take the glass. our fingers brush—a deliberate lingering touch on his part. I bring the crystal to my lips and take a sip.
It tastes like smoke and peat. It burns all the way down my throat, settling in my stomach like a hot coal. I cough slightly, handing it back.
"Better?"
