PAVLOV'S DOG
POV: Silas Vane
The kiss was a structural error.
It was an impulsive release of hydraulic pressure, unauthorized and inefficient.
I pulled back. The sound of our breathing filled the sudden vacuum between us—harsh, wet gasps.
Elena looked wrecked. Her lips were swollen, red from the force of my mouth. Her eyes were glazed, the pupils blown wide, swallowing the amber iris. There was a smudge of my blood on her cheek, dangerously close to her mouth.
Contamination.
The reality of the situation crashed back into the room. We were not lovers in a romance novel. We were two people covered in the filth of a street fight, sitting on a silk bedspread that cost twelve thousand dollars.
I looked at her hands. Trembling.
I looked at the blood on my cuff. Drying to a rust brown.
"Stop," I said. My voice was rough, like gravel in a mixer.
I stood up, putting distance between us. The physical separation tore at something in my chest, but I ignored it. I needed order. I needed sterilization.
"You are dirty," I stated.
Elena blinked, dazed. She touched her lip. "Silas—"
"The biological matter of those men is on your skin. It is on my suit." I looked down at my jacket—bespoke Italian wool, now ruined. I unbuttoned it with shaky fingers and shrugged it off, letting it drop to the floor.
It landed with a heavy thump, a dead thing.
"We need to decontaminate," I said. "Now."
"I... I can go to my room," Elena stammered, trying to stand up. Her legs wobbled.
"No."
I moved toward the bathroom adjoining the master suite. It was a black cavern of Nero Marquina marble. Darker, slicker, and colder than the guest quarters.
"You don't leave my sight," I called over my shoulder. "If you faint in the hallway, you become a liability. You shower here."
I turned the handles. The shower in the master suite was not a simple rain head. It was a steam room, a pressurized chamber of water jets designed to pummel the stress out of the spinal column.
I set the temperature to forty-two degrees Celsius. Scalding.
Steam began to curl around the black tile, misting the mirrors.
I walked back into the bedroom.
Elena was still sitting on the edge of the bed, hugging her knees. She looked small against the vast darkness of my room. She looked like a refugee.
"Get up," I commanded.
She stood. She was wearing the grey wool trousers and black sweater. The knee of the trousers was stained with coffee and floor grime.
I walked up to her.
"Undress," I said.
She froze. "What?"
"Take it off. All of it. It's ruined."
She hesitated, her hands clutching the hem of her sweater. "Silas, I... I can wash myself."
"Your hands are shaking," I pointed out mercilessly. "You are in a post-adrenaline crash. You will slip. You will fall. And I do not have the patience to set a broken bone tonight."
I didn't wait for her permission. I didn't ask. I reached out.
I grabbed the hem of the sweater.
"Arms up."
She looked at me, her eyes searching mine for... what? Lust? There was none. I forced it down. There was only the clinical need to clean the slate.
Slowly, she raised her arms.
I pulled the sweater over her head. I dropped it onto the pile with my jacket.
She stood in a simple black bra. Her skin was pale, flushed pink at the throat. Her collarbones were sharp shadows in the dim light.
I moved to the trousers. I unbuttoned the waist. I heard the sharp intake of her breath.
"Silas," she whispered. "This is..."
"Necessary," I finished. "This is a procedure."
I pushed the trousers down. She stepped out of them, kicking them away.
She stood there in her black underwear. I scanned her body for injuries. A bruise was already blooming on her hip where she had fallen—a purple thundercloud under the skin.
I knelt. I examined it. I didn't touch it with my hand; I hovered, assessing the hematoma.
"Surface trauma," I diagnosed. "No skeletal damage."
I stood up again.
I began to undress myself.
I unbuttoned my shirt. My fingers were slick with sweat and dried blood, making the task difficult. I tore the last button. It pinged off the floor.
I stripped off the shirt. My chest was heaving. I threw the shirt away.
I unbuckled my belt.
Elena watched me. She didn't look away. Her gaze traveled over my chest, the definition of my abdominals, the scar on my ribs from a construction site accident years ago.
I stripped down to my boxer briefs.
"Into the water," I said.
I opened the glass door. Steam poured out, smelling of eucalyptus and rain.
She walked in.
I followed.
The door sealed behind us.
We were enclosed in the black stone box. The water hit us from above and from the sides. It was loud. It drummed against the floor like a tropical storm.
The heat was intense. It stung my face. It instantly soaked my hair, plastering it to my skull.
Elena gasped as the water hit her. She slumped against the black wall, letting the spray hit her face. The water ran dark for a second—dirt, coffee, dust—before running clear.
I reached for the sponge—a black, rough sea sponge. I poured the antiseptic soap onto it. It smelled of clinical sterility.
"Turn around," I said over the roar of the water.
She turned. Her wet back was exposed to me, the bra strap soaked.
"Take it off," I said near her ear.
She reached back and unclasped her bra. It fell wet to the floor.
She was naked.
I pressed the soapy sponge against her shoulder.
I began to scrub.
I didn't scour gently. I scoured. I needed to remove the memory of Aris Thorne touching her arm. I needed to remove the air molecules breathed by the men in ski masks.
I scrubbed her back, moving in circular, mathematical motions. Shoulder blades. Spine. The dip of her waist.
"You're hurting me," she murmured, but she didn't pull away.
"I am exfoliating," I corrected. "I am removing the layers that don't belong here."
I washed the back of her neck, my fingers tangling in her wet hair. I massaged the scalp, digging my fingertips in.
"Fear smells," I said quietly, leaning into her wet shoulder. "It exudes cortisol and acid. It smells sour. I hate it."
I dragged the sponge down her arm, to the spot where Nikolai's thug had grabbed her. I scrubbed it until the skin turned angry red.
"You attract chaos," I whispered. "Like a magnet."
"I didn't ask for them to come," she said, her voice sounding watery.
"No. But you carried the debt. The debt is the beacon."
I dropped the sponge. I used my hands.
I washed her sides. My hands slipped over the soap-slick curves of her waist. I moved to her front.
I didn't turn her. I reached around her. One arm across her chest, the other washing her stomach.
She leaned back against me. Her wet skin against my wet skin. The friction was maddening.
My body reacted. It was impossible for it not to. The press of her ass against my groin was a variable I couldn't isolate. I was hard, aching, the blood rushing south, abandoning the brain.
But I wouldn't take her like this. Not while she was trembling. Not while she was dirty.
I moved my hand higher, soaping her breasts.
Her breath hitched. She let out a soft, broken noise. A whimper.
"Do you like that?" I asked, my voice low, cutting through the steam.
"Silas..."
"Answer me. Precision, Elena."
"Yes," she choked out.
"Because it feels good? or because you are grateful you are not dead?"
"Both," she sobbed. "I don't know. Both."
"That is the defect," I said, thumbing her nipple. It hardened instantly. "You confuse safety with affection. You are responding to me because I am the predator that killed the other predators."
I stopped. I rinsed the soap off her.
"Pavlov's dog," I whispered against wet neck. "I ring the bell, you salivate. I save your life, you spread your legs."
She spun around then. The movement was so sudden I stepped back.
Water streamed down her face. Her eyes were furious.
"Is that what you think this is?" she yelled over the water. "Conditioning?"
"Everything is conditioning."
"Fuck you," she spat. "I'm not a dog. I'm a person. And I'm scared. And you're the only thing in this terrifying room that feels solid."
She shoved me. Her hands hit my wet chest.
"You wash me like a car," she cried. "You talk to me like a computer program. But you kissed me back, Silas. You wanted it."
She was right.
And that infuriated me.
I grabbed her wrists. I pinned them against the black wall, stepping into her space, water crashing over my shoulders.
"I wanted to devour you," I hissed, abandoning the cool facade. "I wanted to take you on the floor amidst the blood and the broken glass. Do not mistake my restraint for indifference."
I stared at her, breathing hard. The water slicked our bodies together.
"You are clean now," I said abruptly.
I released her wrists.
"Get out."
POV: Elena Rostova
I didn't argue. I couldn't.
I scrambled out of the shower, grabbing a thick black towel from the heated rail. I wrapped it around myself, shivering violently. Not from cold—the bathroom was a sauna—but from the sheer electrical voltage of being near him.
He stayed in the shower.
Through the smoked glass, I saw his silhouette. He stood under the pounding jets, head bowed, hands braced against the wall.
He was staying in there to cool down. Or to wash me off him.
I dried myself quickly, my movements jerky. I wiped the steam from the mirror. My reflection was flushed, pink, scrubbed raw. My hair was a wet, dark tangle.
I looked wild.
I walked back into the bedroom. The air was cooler here.
I didn't have clothes. Mine were in a pile of "contaminated" fabric on the floor.
I went to his closet.
I knew I shouldn't. It was invasive.
I opened the sliding panel.
Rows of suits. Shirts arranged by gradient. It was obsessive.
I grabbed a white dress shirt. It was crisp, Egyptian cotton. I put it on. It engulfed me. The hem hit my mid-thighs. The sleeves hung past my hands.
I rolled up the cuffs. It smelled of him. Cedar, starch, and that metallic cold scent.
I curled up on the chaise lounge near the window, tucking my legs underneath me. I watched the bathroom door.
Ten minutes later, Silas emerged.
He had a towel wrapped low around his hips. His torso was sculpted marble—wet, defined, covered in droplets. His hair was slicked back, but a few strands fell forward onto his forehead, making him look younger. Dangerous.
He saw me in his shirt.
He paused.
His eyes traveled down the white cotton, lingering on the buttons, on my bare legs sticking out.
He didn't yell at me for stealing.
He walked over to the dresser and pulled out fresh boxers and grey sweatpants. He didn't turn away to dress. He dropped the towel and pulled them on.
He was magnificent. It was unfair that something so cruel could be built so beautifully.
He grabbed a black t-shirt and pulled it on.
He sat on the edge of the bed, facing me.
"Are you still shaking?" he asked. The clinical tone was back, but softer.
"A little."
"The glucose levels in your blood have dropped."
He reached for the bedside phone.
"Marcus. Bring food. Something warm. Soup. Bread. Heavy carbohydrates. To the Master Suite."
He hung up.
"You're letting me eat in here?" I asked. "I thought this was the forbidden zone."
"The parameters have changed," Silas said, rubbing his face with his hands. "The perimeter is compromised. The guest wing is... insecure until the locks are recoded."
"So I'm sleeping here?"
My heart gave a treacherous leap.
"You are sleeping on the couch," he corrected. He pointed to the massive velvet chaise I was sitting on. "I do not share the bed. I thrash."
"You thrash?"
"I have... restless REM cycles."
Nightmares. The Architect had nightmares.
He stood up and walked to the wet bar in the corner of the room. He poured two glasses of amber liquid.
He brought one to me.
"Brandy," he said. "Vasodilator. It will stop the shivering."
I took the glass. Our fingers brushed. The spark was still there, dormant but ready to ignite.
"Thank you," I whispered.
"Drink."
He sat back on the bed, leaning against the headboard, watching me.
"Silas," I said, taking a sip. The brandy burned pleasantly. "Who were they? Really?"
"I told you. Volkov's interest collectors."
"But how did they get the code? You said the building was impenetrable."
Silas's face darkened. The lines around his mouth deepened.
"Nothing is impenetrable, Elena. There is always a flaw. Usually, the flaw is human greed."
He took a long drink.
"I will find the leak. I will plug it with concrete."
"And then?"
"And then I will build a wall around you so high that even God will need an appointment to see you."
I stared at him. "That sounds like a prison."
"A prison keeps people in," he said, meeting my gaze. "A fortress keeps people out. Learn the distinction."
A knock at the door. Marcus.
He entered with a tray. Tomato soup. Grilled cheese. Simple comfort food.
He set it down on the low table between us. He looked at me in Silas's shirt, then at Silas in sweatpants. He didn't blink.
"The police came to the lobby," Marcus reported. "I informed them it was a misunderstanding involving a delivery dispute. The security feeds have been... misplaced."
"Good," Silas said. "And the package?"
"The two gentlemen have been handed over to private contractors. They are currently en route to a facility in upstate New York for... questioning."
"Excellent. Leave us."
Marcus bowed and left.
Silas gestured to the food. "Eat."
I crawled off the chaise and sat on the floor by the table. I dipped the bread in the soup. I ate ravenously. The fear had hollowed me out, leaving a starving vacuum.
Silas didn't eat. He just watched me.
Every time I took a bite, he nodded slightly. Approval.
Pavlov's dog, he had called me.
I looked at him.
"You're rewarding me," I said, holding a piece of bread. "I survive, I get showered. I behave, I get fed."
"Is it working?" he asked.
"I don't know," I admitted. "I still hate you."
"Good."
He slid off the bed and sat on the floor opposite me. He poured himself more brandy.
"Hate is a structure," he said. "It has foundations. It has walls. I can work with hate. Indifference is what I cannot abide."
He reached out and tucked a wet strand of hair behind my ear. His touch was gentle now. The violence of the shower was gone.
"Eat your soup, Elena. You have a chapter to write tomorrow."
"About what?" I asked, leaning into his touch despite myself.
"About the cracks," he whispered. "Write about what happens when the perfect glass house gets hit with a rock."
I looked into his steel eyes.
"Does it shatter?" I asked.
"No," Silas said, his thumb brushing my cheekbone. "It just gets sharper."
He pulled his hand away.
"Finish eating. Then sleep. I will be awake."
He moved back to the bed, grabbed a tablet, and started working.
I finished the soup. The warmth spread through my belly, lulling the terror to sleep.
I lay down on the chaise, pulling the heavy velvet throw blanket over me. I smelled the cedar of his shirt.
I watched him. The blue light of the screen illuminated his harsh, beautiful face. He wasn't sleeping. He was guarding the door.
He was my captor. He was my tormentor.
But tonight, in the shadow of the violence, he was the only thing holding the roof up.
And I realized with a sinking, terrifying certainty:
I didn't want to leave.