The silence that followed the departure of the Nightwood Council was a living thing. It draped itself over the Grand Hall like a heavy velvet shroud, muffling the echoes of the insults that had been traded only hours before.
Evelyn sat on the edge of the massive obsidian table, her emerald silk dress rumpled, her feet bare against the cold marble. She felt a profound sense of emptiness—the kind that follows a massive adrenaline crash. She had won. They had won. But as she looked at the empty chairs where Silas's family had sat, she realized that victory in the Nightwood world was just another word for survival.
Silas was still in his wheelchair, but he had moved away from the table. He was near the tall, leaded-glass windows, staring out at the storm-ravaged gardens. He had taken off his tuxedo jacket, and his white shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, revealing the sharp line of his collarbone and the dark hair that peeked from his chest.
"You're remarkably quiet for a woman who just decapitated a dynasty," Silas said, his voice a low vibration in the quiet room.
"I was thinking about the price of it all," Evelyn replied, her voice soft, weary. She looked at her hands—the fingers that had just typed the commands to bankrupt her own husband's relatives. "Is it always like this, Silas? Does every win just leave you more alone?"
Silas turned his chair toward her. In the dying light of the afternoon, he looked less like a king and more like a warrior who was tired of the fight. "The higher the throne, the thinner the air, Evelyn. My grandfather taught me that. He used to say that a Nightwood has many allies, many enemies, but only one shadow. And the shadow is the only thing that never betrays you."
He moved toward her, the rhythmic whir of the chair the only sound. He stopped when he was inches away, his presence filling her senses—that intoxicating mix of cedarwood, bitter coffee, and the raw heat of his skin.
"But you," Silas whispered, reaching out to catch a loose strand of her hair. "You're not a shadow. You're a wildfire. And wildfires don't follow the rules of the throne."
He didn't pull her into his lap this time. Instead, he reached out and took her foot in his hand. It was an incredibly intimate gesture—startling, domestic, and filled with a strange, heavy tension. His hand was large and warm, his thumb tracing the arch of her foot with a slow, deliberate pressure that made Evelyn's breath catch in her throat.
"Your feet are cold," Silas murmured, his eyes fixed on the movement of his thumb. "Chapter thirteen, section one, Evelyn: A soldier who forgets to tend to her wounds is a soldier who won't see the next dawn."
"It's just a draft," she said, though she didn't pull away. The contact was sending a liquid heat up her leg, pooling in the pit of her stomach. The room felt suddenly too small, the air too thick.
"Stay still," he commanded.
He stood up then—not with the effortless grace of the garden, but with a slow, gritted-teeth determination that spoke of the pain he was still hiding. He leaned one hand on the table to stabilize himself and reached for a bottle of expensive, amber oil that sat on a nearby side-table.
"Silas, you don't have to—"
"I want to," he interrupted, his voice a gravelly rasp.
He knelt before her. A billionaire, a monster, a man who moved markets with a word, kneeling on the cold marble to massage the feet of the woman he had bought. The irony wasn't lost on Evelyn. Neither was the raw, unadulterated desire that was radiating from him.
As he applied the oil, the scent of sandalwood and black pepper filled the air. His hands were strong, his fingers kneading the tension out of her muscles with a familiarity that felt like a claim. Evelyn leaned back on her hands, her head falling back as a soft, broken sound escaped her lips.
"You think this is just a game of code and contracts, don't you?" Silas whispered, his gaze traveling up her legs to where the emerald silk had gathered at her mid-thigh.
"Isn't it?"
"No." Silas moved closer, his hands sliding up her calves to the sensitive skin behind her knees. He leaned in, his face so close to hers she could see the golden flecks in his dark eyes. "It's about the fact that I can't breathe when you're in the room. It's about the fact that I've spent ten years building a fortress around my heart, and you just walked through the front door without even knocking."
He moved his hands higher, his fingers brushing the hem of her dress. The touch was agonizingly slow, a promise and a threat wrapped in one. Evelyn felt a sharp, desperate need rising in her—a hunger that had nothing to do with food or revenge. She wanted him. Not the monster, not the billionaire, but the man whose hands were currently making her forget her own name.
She reached out, her fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him toward her. "Then stop talking about the door, Silas. And show me what's inside the fortress."
Silas let out a low, guttural growl. He stood up, pinning her against the obsidian table, his body a wall of heat and muscle. His lips were inches from hers, his breath hot and demanding.
"If I show you," he hissed against her mouth, "there is no going back. You won't be my partner anymore. You won't be a Vance. You will be a Nightwood, in every sense of the word. Body, soul, and blood."
"I stopped being a Vance a long time ago," Evelyn whispered, her hands sliding under his shirt, feeling the frantic beat of his heart against her palms.
He kissed her then—not with the dominance of the council room, but with a raw, desperate hunger that spoke of years of loneliness and a sudden, terrifying hope. It was a kiss of surrender. Not hers, but his.
But just as his hand found the zipper of her dress, the silence was shattered.
Not by a helicopter or a police siren, but by a sound much more domestic, and much more chilling.
The sound of a small, electronic beep.
Evelyn's eyes snapped open. She looked past Silas's shoulder to the monitor on the desk. A window had popped open—a message that wasn't supposed to exist.
Sender: Rose V. Message: They're coming for the Chrysalis. Protect the daughter.
The date on the message was today.
Evelyn went cold. Her mother had been dead for ten years.
She pushed Silas away, her breath coming in ragged gasps. "Silas... look at the screen."
Silas turned, his face shifting from passion to a cold, lethal focus in a heartbeat. He stared at the name—Rose V.—and then at Evelyn.
The tension in the room snapped, replaced by a new kind of terror. The "daily" peace was gone. The ghosts hadn't just returned; they were sending messages from the grave.
"Who else has access to your mother's private server?" Silas asked, his voice a low, jagged sound.
"No one," Evelyn whispered, her hand trembling as she reached for the mouse. "I'm the only one who knows the frequency of the blue moon."
"Then we aren't alone in this house," Silas said, reaching for his cane. "And the council was just the distraction."
He looked at her, his eyes burning with a mix of fury and something that looked like fear. "The game just changed, Evelyn. Someone is inside the system. And they know exactly where we are."
Evelyn looked at the screen, then at her husband. The intimacy of the last ten minutes felt like a dream. The reality was a cold, digital nightmare that was just beginning.
"The fortress isn't safe," she said, her voice turning into the sharp blade of 'V'.
"Then we make it a tomb," Silas replied.