Chapter 4
Silas obeyed. He collapsed into a heavy leather armchair, his head falling back against the upholstery as he closed his eyes. Harper retrieved a first-aid kit from the adjacent bathroom. She pulled a footstool close to him, sitting down and gently taking his battered right hand. The knuckles were split down to the bone, bruised a deep, angry purple. It was the hand of a man who had just beaten someone within an inch of their life.
Harper cleaned the wounds in silence. The sharp scent of rubbing alcohol mixed with the smell of rain and ozone. She expected him to pull away, to maintain his untouchable facade, but Silas remained perfectly still. His breathing slowed as she meticulously applied antiseptic and wrapped his hand in white gauze.
"You shouldn't be doing this," Silas murmured, his eyes still closed. "You're here for the dog. Not for me."
"The dog needs you," Harper replied evenly, tying off the bandage. "He watches the door every night waiting for you to come home. If you get yourself killed, he goes right back to starving in a corner. And I won't let you undo my hard work."
Silas opened his eyes, staring at her with an intensity that made the air in the room feel thin. "The men I dealt with tonight... they were connected to the people who attacked my home. The ones who took Elena."
Harper’s breath hitched. It was the first time he had spoken his late wife’s name.
"I promised myself I would tear down their entire syndicate," Silas continued, his voice devoid of emotion, a cold statement of fact. "I will dismantle their lives piece by piece. But every time I close my eyes, I just see the blood on the floor."
Without thinking, Harper reached out and rested her hand over his uninjured one. It was a bold move, a dangerous one, but her empathy overrode her fear. "Revenge isn't going to fill the silence in this house, Silas. It’s just going to make it louder."
He looked down at her small hand covering his. The ice in his gaze fractured, revealing a man who was drowning in an ocean of grief, desperately searching for a piece of driftwood. He turned his hand over, intertwining his fingers with hers. The contact sent a jolt of electricity up Harper’s arm, a terrifying, thrilling spark.
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A soft whine broke the tension. Bane had limped over and rested his massive chin on Silas's knee, looking up at his master.
Silas reached down with his bandaged hand, stroking the dog’s head. He looked back at Harper, the silence between them no longer heavy, but charged with something new. Something dangerous.
