Chapter 7 - The Mask Slips
The adrenaline of Julian's attack left us both wired. The penthouse was quiet again, but the air between us crackled with a different kind of tension.
Elias stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows, staring out at the Manhattan skyline. His knuckles were bruised from hitting Julian. I walked to the wet bar, poured some antiseptic onto a cloth, and went to him.
"Give me your hand," I ordered softly.
He looked down at me, the dark fury in his eyes slowly melting into something softer, something vulnerable. He offered me his hand. I dabbed the antiseptic on his split knuckles. He flinched, not from the pain, but from the gentleness of the touch.
"You shouldn't have risked exposing yourself," I said, wrapping a small bandage around his skin.
"He was going to hurt you," Elias replied, his voice thick. "I don't care about the mask. I don't care about the money. I won't let them hurt you, Clara. Not anymore."
I looked up. We were mere inches apart. The facade of the business arrangement, the transactional nature of our marriage, all of it burned away in the space between us.
"You're not Silas Thorne," I whispered, reaching up to trace the faint white scar on his cheekbone. "You're Elias. And I'm not their pawn anymore."
He didn't wait for permission. Elias closed the distance, wrapping his arms around my waist and pulling me flush against his chest. His mouth crashed down on mine, fierce and desperate. I kissed him back with equal hunger, my fingers tangling in his thick, ash-blond hair.
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The kiss tasted of whiskey, adrenaline, and a decade of repressed anger finally finding its release. He lifted me effortlessly, carrying me to the massive king-sized bed in the master suite.
There were no masks. There was no deception. That night, in the dark, we forged a bond that had nothing to do with contracts or revenge, and everything to do with two broken people finding the exact piece they needed to heal.
