Chapter 2
The next morning, the sprawling kitchen of the Thorne estate felt entirely different. The oppressive silence had shifted into something fragile, like ice just before it cracks. Harper stood at the marble island, carefully boiling a mixture of shredded chicken, white rice, and bone broth. Her hands moved with practiced efficiency, a stark contrast to the luxurious surroundings. She wore the same faded jeans and oversized sweater from yesterday, acutely aware of the expensive, tailored world she had crashed into.
Silas entered the kitchen without a sound. He moved like a shadow, his presence instantly dropping the temperature in the room. He wore a crisp white dress shirt, the sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms corded with muscle and faint, jagged scars. He didn't say good morning. He simply walked to the espresso machine, his ice-blue eyes fixed on Harper.
"He ate," Silas stated. It wasn't a question.
"He ate a handful of liver," Harper corrected softly, keeping her eyes on the simmering pot. "His stomach shrank. If we give him too much too fast, he’ll throw it up. The broth will rehydrate him and rebuild his gut lining."
Silas leaned against the counter, watching her with a terrifying intensity. "Six of the most expensive veterinary behaviorists on the West Coast told me to put him down. They said his grief was terminal. You whispered one word to him, and he ate."
"They were treating a medical condition," Harper replied, finally looking up to meet his gaze. "Bane isn't sick, Mr. Thorne. He’s heartbroken. And he felt entirely useless. I just reminded him that he still has a job to do."
"And what job is that?"
"Protecting you."
Silas’s jaw tightened. The mention of protection clearly struck a nerve, brushing against the raw wound of his wife’s death. He looked away, staring out the massive floor-to-ceiling windows at the crashing Pacific waves.
"My head of security ran a background check on you last night," Silas said suddenly, his voice dropping an octave. "Harper Quinn. Twenty-five. No permanent address for the last eight months. Cash-only jobs. And a restraining order filed three years ago against a man named Marcus Vance in Seattle."
Harper froze, the wooden spoon slipping from her hand and clattering against the stove. Her heart hammered violently against her ribs. She took a step back, her instincts screaming at her to run.
May you like
"I told you," she breathed, her voice shaking. "I'm just here to help the dog. I don't want any trouble."
"Relax," Silas commanded gently, a surprising softness cutting through his usual frost. "I'm not sending you away. But in my world, there are no secrets. If this Marcus comes looking for you, he’s going to find a fortress. You’re safe here, Harper. Just keep the dog alive."
