“You don’t know what Konstantin is capable of.”
“I don’t need to know what he is capable of to know I am going to protect you from it.”
My lower stomach floods with warmth, my heart skipping a beat. I want to cling on to those words. To believe in them, but it’s terrifying to hand my heart and safety to a man of power when I’ve been burned for the same thing in the past. Not that my ex-husband ever had my heart.
“He’s a monster,” I whisper. “He won’t stop until he finds me.”
“His window of opportunity just closed,” he says in more of a growl, and a cold chill runs down my spine at the obvious threat.
“Silas—”
He takes my face in both hands and tilts it up, so I have no choice but to meet his gaze. “Let him come with his war and his vengeance, and I will destroy him.”
I want to believe him.
Because I can’t help but feel safe when I am with him.
Which is reckless.
Because I’m not.
I am only safe in the shadows, skipping out to the next city and starting all over again.
I hate how much of a coward that makes me because I’ve fought hard to build all that I have.
“Why would you go so far for me?” I even catch on to the thought that maybe, just maybe, he’s keeping me here to hand me over, but I know that’s not the truth. I’m just so wired to protect myself and keep everyone at such a distance that when Silas sneaks through my defenses, I still don’t know if this is safe.
If this can still be home.
“Because you’re the most stubborn, psychotic, beautiful, and fierce woman I’ve ever met. You do not run. You meet things head-on. You don’t have to fight this alone, Little Raven. I’ve become rather attached and refuse to hand you over to anyone,” he murmurs, grazing his thumb across my cheek.
It’s the truth in his words and gaze. The intensity that makes me understand this is more than just sex, and that might even scare me more than Konstantin. Because letting someone in, seeing all the ugly scars, is the scariest of them all.
“I won’t let you run,” he pushes, as if taking my silence as admission, and when he bends his head and brushes his lips to mine, I close my eyes, accepting all of Silas. It’s a whisper of a kiss. A request for permission from a man who doesn’t ask permission from anyone. It’s different from how we’ve been in the past. Softer, gentler, more human than carnal.
I answer him by pressing my mouth to his, and our kiss is devastatingly slow. It’s not the wild, demanding kisses he usually gives me. It is something different. His lips move over mine with an exquisite slowness that tells me he savors every second of this moment. That this isn’t lust. This is something else completely.
His hands slide from my face to my neck, then to the straps of my dress, and I stiffen.
He pulls back and looks at me. “Let me see you. All of you.”
My heart hammers against my ribs. He hasn’t seen all of me naked. I’ve always controlled what he sees. I don’t hide because I am ashamed. I’m proud of my body. It’s flawed and soft and beautiful as every female form is. I’m also not ashamed of my scars. They are medals of my survival. Of what I overcame. But I hide them so I don’t have to answer any questions about them. It’s human nature to want to know the story, and I have no desire to explain them. And I knew someone who is used to this violence like Silas would’ve definitely asked questions.
But I’m ready. I want him to see the real me. After all, I’m not hiding anymore.
I rise to my feet and reach up to drag the straps over my shoulders. My dress slides down my body and falls to my feet until I’m standing in front of him in nothing but a pair of panties.
His gaze moves over my body, stopping at the deep scar along my collarbone. The one I received on my wedding night. Then it drops to my lower stomach. His eyes catch on the healed cigarette burns on my hip and the white scars scored into my lower stomach because Viktor was feeling particularly violent and rageful one night for no other reason than he was a monster.
Silas’s composure wavers, and I see the violence simmering beneath the surface. His jaw tightens. Gone is the calm control I am used to. Replaced with a barely contained rage.
“If he was still breathing, I would kill him a thousand times over,” he growls.
That floods me with a warmth and security I’ve never been able to find in anyone else, but I say, “Putting a bullet in his head was satisfying,” reminding him that I can look after myself. It brings me comfort to know that, for once, I might not have to do it alone. That I’ve met someone who matches my crazy. I reach for the buttons of his shirt, and my fingers hold a slight tremble as I remove it from his hard body. I’m not scared of showing him my scars, but as I finally let him into my heart, I’m hoping I’m not the fool for it. But when I look at his intense dark eyes that promise death to another, lust and understanding toward me, I know that’s not the case.
Next, I undo his belt buckle, then his zipper, push his clothes to his feet, and watch, my heart racing, as he steps out of them.
Naked, he is magnificent. His hard body is covered in ink. His stomach is ridged with muscles that flex beneath my touch. I slide my hands across the broad expanse of his chest and over his wide shoulders.
