Rosewood Mountain Peak Villa
Moonlight bled into darkness. On a deep blue velvet bed,
Elara lay like a shattered doll—raven curls fanned across the pillow, thick
lashes casting shadows on cheeks marred by fresh, angry scratches. Her lips,
kissed raw hours before, were pale and tightly pursued. Even in sleep, her brow
furrowed, radiating a fragile brokenness that tugged at something primal.
So easy to break, Silas thought, his gaze tracing the
wounds. And broken right after fleeing my bed. The thought twisted something
inside him. He sat on the edge, the scent of medical ointment sharp in the
quiet air. Unscrewing the cap the family doctor had left, he dipped his fingers
in the cool gel, applying it with surprising gentleness to her wounds.
Last night, he'd been drunk, but not blind. A woman throwing
herself at him usually earned a swift ejection. Yet, he'd made an exception for
her. Vivid, intoxicating images flashed behind his eyes— the frantic heat, the
sharp sting of her nails scoring his back like a little wildcat's. A phantom
ache throbbed beneath his robe. His gaze darkened, fixed on her sleeping face.
His thumb unconsciously lingered on the soft curve of her cheekbone, the heat
of her skin seeping into his fingertips.
Her lashes fluttered. His hand froze.
Almond eyes, wide with confusion and dawning horror, locked
onto his.
"Awake." He withdrew his hand, his voice a low rumble she remembered all
too well. "Just treating the scratches. Don't worry. They won't scare."
Elara blinked, the coolness on her cheek shocking her fully awake. She
scrambled upright, sheets pooling around her waist. Panic flared as she
realised she wore only a thin pink slip. Instinctively, she yanked the duvet up
to her chin, shrinking back against the headboard, her gaze wary as it swept
over the man standing before her. Last night's dim lighting hadn't lied. He was
older, etched with a dangerous maturity. Sharp features, a blade of a nose,
lips set in a firm line— a face built for command. But it was the eyes that
arrested her: deep-set, unsettlingly intense, holding depths she couldn't
fathom. They scanned her now, radiating a power that was both magnetic and
terrifying.
He'd just showered. Dark hair, damp at the ends, fell carelessly across
his forehead. The luxurious black rob, tied loosely with a crimson sash, gaped
open, revealing a sculpted chest and the stark red bit mark marring his throat.
Her own mark.
Heat flooded her face. She tore her gaze away. "… Thank you. For saving
me." Her voice was a thread. The opulent, masculine room screamed his domain.
"Saving you last night?" Silas mused, sitting back on the edge of the
bed. His gaze drifted pointedly to the constellation of bruises blooming on her
neck. His throat tightened. "Or saving you from collapsing on my driveway this
morning?"
His proximity, the potent mix of expensive soap and raw masculinity, slammed
into her, dragging back the raw, chaotic memories of the night. Her knuckles
whitened on the sheet. "Both," she forced out.
"Last night was an accident," she rushed on, desperate to reclaim control.
"I was drugged. Once I walk out that door, it's forgotten. I'm grateful you
didn't throw me out then, but that's it." She lifted her chin, meeting his
unsettling stare. "Please. Never mention it again. We're strangers."
The air turned glacial. Silas tilted his head, his gaze unnervingly
direct. "How old are you?"
"Twenty-one", Elara answered, confused.
Sixteen years. The number landed like a stone in Silas's gut. His thumb
absently rotated the heavy black onyx ring on his pinky. Too young. A cradle
robber? Was that why she recoiled? Or… was it him? His technique? A flicker of
unwelcome insecurity surfaced.
Elara seized the moment, pushing the covers aside to escape the
suffocating tension. Her bare feet touched the cool floor.
"If I recall correctly." Silas's voice cut through her movement,
dangerously soft, "last night was your first time."
Elara froze. Her blood turned to ice.
"Don't you want me to take responsibility?" his gaze held hers, intense,
probing.
She saw the flicker of calculation in those dark eyes. He leaned in,
reaching to tuck a stray curl behind her ear.
Smack!
Her hand lashed out, striking his away with surprising force. She
launched herself off the bed like a cornered animal, eyes blazing, face icy. "I
don't need your responsibility! I have a boyfriend!"
Silas slowly retracted his stung hand. All trace of amusement vanished
from his face, replaced by a chilling stillness. He rose to his full height, looking down
at her, his tone lethally calm. "Have a boyfriend.. and still a virgin?"
"That's none of your business!" Her voice cracked, pale with fury and
shame. "Who says you can't be a virgin with a boyfriend?" The words tasted like
ash. She'd saved herself for Julian, for their anniversary next week. One week!
And Bianca and Claire had stolen it, forcing her to give it to this… this
stranger.
Silas saw the raw pain, the resentment in her eyes. Arguing with a
heartbroken child suddenly felt beneath him. A wry, self-mocking smile touched
his lips. "Relax. I meant no offence. You have a boyfriend? Fine. Consider it
forgotten." For now. The unspoken words hung heavy. He wouldn't force himself on another man's
girl. Even if the thought twisted something inside him.
Relief washed over Elara, leaving her trembling. His gaze still felt like a
trap, promising things she couldn't name. Dangerous. Utterly dangerous.
"Thanks," she mumbled, barely audible. He had helped her twice.
He heard. "Shoes." He nodded towards plush grey lambswool slippers on the
floor. "Kitchen made soup. Eat before you go."
She slid her bare feet into the oversized slippers, ignoring the intimacy
of wearing his things. "I'm not hungry. I should go…"
"Eat." The command was gentle but absolute. He watched her, arms crossed
over his broad chest. "The doctor said you're weak. Physically depleted. You
fainted from exhaustion." A pause, heavy with unspoken implications about why
she was exhausted. "You woke up less than two hours ago. I'd rather not find
you passed out on my mountain again." His gaze swept over her fragile frame
meaningfully.
Elara's protest died. She was weak. Premature, perpetually fragile. Last
night's ordeal and this morning's confrontation with Bianca had shattered her
reserves. She looked away. "…Fine."
Alone in the grand dining room, she forced down a bowl of warm soup. It
soothed her hollow stomach, a small comfort. She looked up. He was there,
leaning against the arched doorway, watching her. Still in the robe, one hand
in his pocket, the other holding a smouldering cigar. Smoke wreathed his sharp
features, deepening the mystery in his dark eyes. She quickly looked down,
unable to hold that intense gaze.
"Time to go." His voice was rougher now, textured by smoke. "Ethan will
drive you down."
Relief warred with wariness. She followed him out.
A sleek vintage green Rolls-Royce Phantom waited. Leaning against it was a
young man in a sharp black suit—Ethan. His easy grin felt too knowing as he
opened the door. "Miss."
Elara hesitated. Ethan's vibe screamed 'trouble'.
"Ethan," Silas's voice snapped, cold steel beneath the surface. The smirk
vanished instantly. Silas turned to Elara, his touch surprisingly light as he
guided her towards the car. "Get in. Tell Ethan your destination. He'll get
your there." His hand lingered for a fraction of a second on the small of her
back before withdrawing.
She slid into the cool leather interior. The door thudded shut. As the
Rolls began to glide forward, a sleek black Mercedes sedan glided into the
courtyard. The cars passed. In the Mercedes, Julian peered into the Roll's
tinted window, a vague sense of recognition tugging at him. But his attention
was ripped away as his own car stopped. There, waiting on the steps, stood the
man who commanded every room. Any thought of the Mirage passenger fled. A wide,
eager smile broke across Julian's face as he leaned out of the window.
"Dad…!"