A dull, all-over ache was the first thing to register, a
deep-seated weariness that clung to Elara's bones. Then, memory returned in a
sickening rush. Her eyes flew open, and her hand jerked instinctively to her
abdomen.
A warm, large hand was already there, covering hers.
"The babies are safe," a husky, sleep-roughened voice
murmured beside her. "They're right here. Don't be afraid."
Silas.
The sound of his voice, a familiar anchor in the storm of
her panic, instantly soothed the frantic beat of her heart. She turned her head
on the pillow.
Her gaze collided with his. The tender, raw affection in his
deep, dark eyes sent a shiver through her, so potent it eclipsed her pain for a
moment.
She studied his face. It was still the same devastatingly
handsome canvas, but now marred by the violence of the night. A purpling bruise
high on his cheekbone, a split at the corner of his lips. But it was the
exhaustion that truly caught her breath—the crimson web of fatigue in his eyes,
the shadows beneath them, the dark stubble dusting his jaw. He looked utterly
drained.
"You didn't sleep at all, did you?" Her own voice was a dry,
rasping thing. She winced and gave a light cough.
"I rested," he deflected, already moving. He swung his legs
off the small bed he'd pulled beside hers and crossed to the lounge to pour a
glass of lukewarm water.
When Elara tried to push herself up, he was there in an
instant, a gentle hand on her shoulder. "No. Don't move. Not even a little."
His tone was soft but brooked no argument. "I'll get a straw."
She obediently sank back, her head turning to watch him. He
moved with a quiet, focused efficiency, tearing the paper off a straw and
placing it in the cup. Then he bent, one hand cradling the back of her head
just enough to help her drink, the other holding the cup steady. His proximity,
his care—it was both a balm and a reminder of how close she'd come to losing it
all.
She took several grateful sips, the water soothing her
parched throat before she released the straw with a soft sigh.
Silas set the cup aside and sat on the edge of her bed. His
hand came up to cradle her cheek, his thumb stroking slow, soothing circles on
her skin. "Where does it hurt?" he asked, his voice low. "Is the pain in your
stomach gone?"
Elara splayed her hand over her abdomen, checking in with
her own body. "The cramping is gone," she confirmed, a wave of relief washing
through her. "It's just my arms and legs… they feel like lead."
She deliberately didn't mention the throbbing, branded pain
on her neck where Steven had bitten her. The memory of that violation, of
Steven's grotesque performance in front of Silas, made her skin crawl. She
couldn't bear to bring it up.
"That's from the jump, and the tension," he said,
understanding immediately. His large, warm hand found her arm again, his
fingers beginning to work the sore muscles with a practiced, perfect
pressure—firm enough to soothe the ache, gentle enough not to jostle her.
She closed her eyes, letting the tension seep from her limbs
under his ministrations.
"What did the doctor say… about the babies?" she whispered,
afraid to break the calm.
Silas didn't stop his massage as he relayed Dr. Miller's
words, his voice even and calm. He told her everything—about the twins, the haemorrhage,
the critical need for absolute bed rest.
Elara's eyes flew open, a fresh spike of fear piercing her
heart. "So… as long as I don't move, the babies will be okay? That's it?"
Seeing the terror in her wide, luminous eyes, Silas felt his
own heart constrict. He forced a small, reassuring smile onto his lips. "Dr.
Miller said you're strong, Elly. Your body is young and resilient. We just need
to be patient, let you rest here in the hospital until they are stable.
Everything will be fine." He leaned forward, his forehead nearly touching hers.
"I'm not going anywhere. I'll be right here with you the entire time."
The unwavering certainty in his gaze finally allowed her to
believe him. A shaky breath escaped her. "Okay. That's… that's good."
A comfortable silence fell between them, filled only with
the sound of her steadying breath. She watched him, this powerful man so
completely focused on caring for her.
"Silas," she began softly, the question that had been
gnawing at her finally spilling out. "Is Steven… dead?"
His hands never stilled. He lifted his gaze to meet hers,
his eyes dark and unreadable. "Barring a miracle, the sea finished what we
started. But his body hasn't been recovered."
Elara's blood ran cold. No body. That meant a sliver of
doubt, a fragment of hope for a man who deserved none. The memory of last
night—the cold press of the gun in her hand, the deafening report, the jolt up
her arm, the look of shock in Steven's eyes—flooded back.
This was the first time she had ever aimed a weapon at
another human being and pulled the trigger.
She had learned to shoot for self-defence, a theoretical
skill for a worst-case scenario. She never imagined that scenario would find
her so soon.
That very night at the range, she had told Silas she could
never actually shoot someone. In her world, conflicts ended with lawyers or, at
worst, a slap. A gun was… final. It was a line she never thought she'd cross.
But now she knew. When cornered, when your life and the
lives of your unborn children are on the line, there is no line. There is only
survival.
And if Steven was truly dead… did that make her a murderer?
Silas watched the play of emotions across her face—the
distant gaze, the tightly pressed lips, the profound sorrow darkening her eyes.
He reached out, his thumb gently tracing her lower lip. "Don't," he murmured.
"Don't bite your lip. Don't retreat into yourself."
The tender touch broke her trance. Her eyes refocused on
his, and what she saw there stole her breath away. It was a deep, gut-wrenching
guilt.
"Elly," he began, his voice thick with an emotion so raw it
was almost painful to hear. "I am so sorry. Words can't… they can't convey the
regret I feel." He swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing. "My arrogance put
you in that monster's path. I thought the safest place for you was by my side.
I was wrong. Because of me, you endured hell. Because of me, our children are
fighting for their lives."
He paused, a bitter, self-mocking smile twisting his lips.
"If anything had happened to you… to them… I would never have forgiven myself.
The regret would have consumed me."
He had once believed the most terrifying moment of his life
was watching Elora Cohen choose her own fiery end—a act of madness designed to
chain him to a lifetime of guilt.
But last night, watching Steven drag Elara into the
darkness, he discovered a new, unparalleled terror. It wasn't about guilt or
regret. It was the sheer, soul-crushing fear of a future without her light in
it. He would have burned the whole world down to get her back.
And that was a power far greater than any regret.