The door handle turns.
It opens slowly, releasing a cloud of steam that smells of sandalwood and cedar—his scent. It rolls into the bedroom, displacing the metallic tang of blood that lingered in the air.
Silas steps out.
He is naked.
I’ve seen him in suits that cost more than my tuition. I’ve seen him in tactical gear, looking like a soldier. But I have never seen him like this.
He is massive. The sheer scale of him steals the air from the room. Broad shoulders taper down to a narrow waist and powerful thighs. His body is a map of violence—scars crisscrosshis torso, silver lines of old battles that mar the tanned skin. There’s a jagged one on his ribs. Another on his hip.
Water droplets cling to his skin, glistening in the dim light of the bedside lamp. He hasn't bothered to dry off completely. He didn't bother with a towel.
He is unapologetic. He is inevitable.
My gaze drops lower, against my will. He is semi-hard, heavy and thick, resting against his thigh.
I swallow hard, my mouth suddenly dry as dust.
"See something you like, Mrs. Vane?"
His voice is rough, a low rumble that vibrates through the floorboards and straight into my spine.
I jerk my eyes back up to his face. The wet hair hangs over his forehead, softening his features, but his eyes are razor-sharp. They are blue ice, burning with a hunger that threatens to consume me whole.
"You... you didn't unlock me," I whisper, my voice trembling.
"No."
He walks toward the bed. Every step is deliberate. Predatory. He moves with the lazy confidence of a lion approaching a trapped gazelle.
"I told you," he says, stopping at the edge of the mattress. "I lied."
He looms over me, blocking out the rest of the room. I am in his shadow. I have always been in his shadow.
"Why?" I breathe. "Why are you doing this?"
"Because you need it," he says simply.
He climbs onto the bed. The mattress dips under his weight, tilting my world toward him. He crawls over me, his movements animalistic, fluid. He settles his weight on his knees, straddling my hips, pinning me effectively to the mattress without even using his hands.
He is so close. I can feel the heat radiating off him, searing my skin.
"You need to know that you can't run," he murmurs, reaching out to brush a damp lock of hair from my forehead. His fingers are clean now. The blood is gone. But I know it’s there, under the surface. "You need to understand that your body is not your own anymore."
"It is mine," I protest, but the words lack conviction. I can feel my heart pounding against his knee where it presses against my side.
"Is it?"
He leans back, sitting on his heels, looking down at me. He grabs the hem of the silver nightgown—the flimsy barrier I put on for dinner.
"Lift your hips."
"No."
He doesn't ask again. He grips my hips with his large hands, his fingers digging into my flesh, and lifts me effortlessly. He yanks the silk up, bunching it around my waist.
I am exposed.
