The morning air was thick, not with the smell of rain, but with the scent of impending war.
Evelyn stood in the center of Silas's private dressing room—a cathedral of dark mahogany, mirrored glass, and the scent of expensive cedar and raw, masculine musk. The "Family Council" was waiting downstairs, but in this hermetically sealed sanctuary, the only world that existed was the one between the four walls and the two people inside them.
Silas sat in his wheelchair, but he was far from the "broken man" the world saw. He was shirtless, his broad, scarred shoulders catching the low morning light. The jagged line of the scar across his chest looked like a bolt of lightning frozen in flesh.
"The charcoal suit," Silas commanded, his voice a low, vibrating rasp that seemed to travel through the floorboards and up Evelyn's spine. "The one with the silk lining. Marcus is busy with the security detail, so today... you are my hands, Evelyn."
Evelyn didn't move immediately. Her eyes traveled over the landscape of his torso—the hard, defined muscle, the way the hair on his chest narrowed into a dangerous line that disappeared into the waistband of his trousers. The air in the room felt suddenly scarce.
She picked up the crisp, white shirt from the marble counter. As she approached him, the heat radiating from his body hit her like a physical force. She didn't just walk toward him; she entered his gravity.
"Lean forward," she whispered, her own voice sounding foreign to her ears—darker, heavier.
As she draped the shirt over his shoulders, her fingers brushed the skin of his back. Silas stiffened, a low, guttural sound escaping his throat. It wasn't pain. It was a reaction so visceral it made Evelyn's breath hitch. She moved to the front, her knuckles grazing the hard planes of his stomach as she began to button the shirt, starting from the bottom.
Her heart was a frantic drum. She could feel Silas's gaze on her, heavy and predatory. He wasn't looking at the shirt; he was looking at the pulse jumping in her neck, at the way her lips were parted in unconscious invitation.
"You're trembling, little wildfire," Silas murmured. He reached out, his hands—large, warm, and calloused—sliding around her waist. He didn't just hold her; he pulled her flush against his knees, forcing her to stand between his spread legs.
The contact was electric. The thin silk of her morning robe was no match for the heat of his skin. Evelyn felt a sharp, liquid ache blossom in the pit of her stomach. She looked up, her blue eyes clashing with his dark ones.
"It's the coffee," she lied, her fingers fumbling with a button near his collar.
"Liars should learn to control their heartbeats," Silas hissed. He leaned in, his lips brushing against the sensitive skin of her earlobe. His breath was hot, smelling of bitter espresso and the dark, intoxicating scent of a man who had been wanting her for ten lifetimes. "I can feel your heart hammering against my chest, Evelyn. It's telling a much more honest story than your tongue."
He moved his hand up, his thumb tracing the line of her spine, pressing into the small of her back until she arched toward him. The friction of her body against his was a slow-motion explosion. Evelyn let out a soft, broken moan, her hands tangling in the fabric of his unbuttoned shirt, pulling him closer when she should have been pushing away.
"Silas... the council... they're waiting," she managed to gasp, though her head had fallen back, exposing the long, elegant line of her throat to his gaze.
"Let them wait," Silas growled. He buried his face in the crook of her neck, his teeth grazing her skin in a way that was both a threat and a promise. "Let them sit in their gold-leafed chairs and wonder why their king is late. I want them to know that I have something in this room that is worth more than all the Nightwood shares combined."
He pulled back just enough to look at her, his eyes burning with a dark, primal hunger. "You think you're just a ghost in my machine, Evelyn? You're the only thing that makes me feel like I'm not made of stone."
He kissed her then, and it wasn't a question—it was a conquest. It tasted of whiskey and desperation, a collision of two lonely souls who had finally found a mirror in each other's darkness. It was a kiss that stripped away the contracts and the revenge, leaving behind nothing but the raw, unadulterated need of two adults who had spent too long pretending they didn't want to burn the world down together.
When Silas finally released her, his breathing was ragged, his pupils so dilated his eyes were almost entirely black. He looked at her bruised lips, a look of grim triumph on his face.
"Now," he said, his voice a gravelly command. "Finish the buttons. We have vultures to feed."
The Grand Hall of the Nightwood Estate was a room designed to intimidate. It was a space of cold marble, towering portraits, and a long, obsidian table that had seen a century of hostile takeovers and shattered lives.
As Evelyn pushed Silas's wheelchair into the room, the atmosphere shifted instantly. The air turned brittle, frozen by the stares of the Nightwood Council.
There were six of them. At the head of the table sat Julian Nightwood, Silas's eldest uncle—a man with hair like silver wire and eyes that looked like they were carved from ice. Beside him was Seraphina, a cousin who had spent her life trying to marry into the direct line of succession, her gaze fixed on Evelyn with a venomous intensity.
"Silas," Julian said, his voice a dry, aristocratic drawl. "We were beginning to think your... condition... had worsened. Or perhaps your new wife has been keeping you otherwise occupied?"
He shot a derogatory look at Evelyn, his eyes lingering on her lips, which were still slightly swollen from Silas's kiss.
"My wife is the only reason I'm still interested in this family, Julian," Silas replied, his voice echoing with a cold, absolute power that made the council members shift in their seats. He didn't look like a man in a wheelchair; he looked like a judge presiding over a sentencing. "I trust you've all read the audit reports? The ones that show exactly how much of the Nightwood capital you've been siphoning into your private 'charities'?"
Seraphina let out a sharp, forced laugh. "Oh, Silas. Still playing the detective? We're here to discuss the stability of this company. Marrying a disgraced Vance? A girl whose family is currently under investigation for money laundering? It's a liability, Silas. The board is calling for a vote of no confidence."
She turned her gaze to Evelyn, her smile as sharp as a razor. "Tell me, Evelyn dear. Does it feel strange? To go from being a princess in a manor to being a nurse for a man who can't even walk his own halls? Or did Silas promise you enough diamonds to make you forget the smell of the hospital ward?"
The room went silent. Evelyn felt the familiar coldness of 'V' settle over her. She didn't look at Silas for help. She didn't need it.
She stepped forward, her heels clicking against the marble with a lethal precision. She didn't look like a nurse. In her emerald silk dress, her hair pinned back in a sleek, severe bun, she looked like a queen who had just been handed a guillotine.
"Cousin Seraphina," Evelyn said, her voice a soft, dangerous melody. "I've noticed that your personal portfolio has taken a significant hit in the last forty-eight hours. Something about a mismanaged hedge fund in Singapore? It's a shame. If you'd spent as much time checking your encryption as you did checking the price of my diamonds, you might still have a retirement fund."
Seraphina's face turned a ghostly shade of white. "How... how did you—"
"I'm a Nightwood now," Evelyn interjected, leaning over the table, her eyes locking onto Julian's. "And in this family, we don't just protect our own. We dismantle our enemies. If you want to talk about stability, Julian, let's talk about the secret meeting you had with Julian Vane last Tuesday. The one where you offered him the Nightwood logistics codes in exchange for a seat on his board."
The explosion of noise from the council was instantaneous. Accusations were hurled like daggers. Julian Nightwood looked like he was about to have a stroke, his hands trembling as he stared at the woman who had just dismantled his thirty-year career in thirty seconds.
Silas watched her, a look of genuine, dark admiration on his face. He reached out and caught Evelyn's hand, his fingers tangling with hers on the tabletop in a blatant display of unity.
"You heard my wife," Silas said, his voice cutting through the chaos like a thunderclap. "This meeting isn't about my marriage. It's about your survival. You have two choices: You can sign over your voting shares to the Rose Foundation by midnight, or you can wait for the SEC to knock on your doors tomorrow morning. Evelyn has already sent the preliminary files to their servers. All she has to do is hit 'Enter'."
The vultures were silent now. They looked at Silas—the man they had thought was a broken toy—and then at Evelyn—the girl they had thought was a trophy. They realized then that they weren't looking at a marriage. They were looking at a firing squad.
An hour later, the room was empty. The council had fled, their tails between their legs, leaving behind a trail of signed documents and shattered egos.
Silas sat at the head of the obsidian table, his eyes fixed on Evelyn. She was standing by the window, the sunlight catching the emerald of her dress. She looked tired, her shoulders finally slumping from the weight of the performance.
"You're a terrifying woman, Mrs. Nightwood," Silas said, his voice soft, almost tender.
Evelyn turned back to him, a faint, weary smile on her lips. "I'm just a girl who hates to be underestimated, Silas."
He moved his chair toward her, stopping only when he was inches away. He reached out and pulled her into his lap, his strength effortless. He buried his face in her hair, breathing her in as if she were the only thing keeping him grounded.
"They're gone," he whispered against her skin. "For now. But the war... the war has just become personal."
"Good," Evelyn said, her arms sliding around his neck, her body molding to his with a familiarity that made her heart ache. "I've always been better at personal wars."
She leaned in, her lips brushing against his in a way that was no longer about the cameras or the council. It was about the heat in the dressing room, the scars on his chest, and the dark, beautiful future they were building together.
"Chapter twelve, section one, Silas," she murmured against his mouth. "Never let a vulture tell a hawk how to fly."
Silas didn't answer. He just kissed her, and in the quiet of the Grand Hall, the only sound was the crackle of the fire and the rhythmic, desperate beat of two hearts that had finally found their home in the storm.