Page 54 of The Villains We Make

“Do you understand?” he asks again, and I realize he’s waiting for me to answer him. “Do you know?”

“I know, Silas. I know.”

“No matter what, O. No matter.” He closes his eyes then and wraps one hand around the top of my head, his weight heavy on me. I touch his face, so he opens his eyes. I want to see him. Watch him. He’s so beautiful. So perfect. And like this, we are one, just him and me. Just us.

The thought draws warm tears from my eyes. It was always meant to be just us.

When it’s over and his breath has leveled out, he rolls onto his side seeming surprised by my tears. He wipes them away.

“What is it?” he asks.

“I wasn’t right,” I start, the thought coming out of nowhere.

He cocks his head and waits for me to clarify.

“When I told you you’d become the villain of your own story. I wasn’t right. You broke, I think. No, I know. You broke over and over again for a long time. That part was right. But the way you healed, your scars,” I continue, touching his temple where the physical scar is, then his broken nose. “They’re what make you perfect. You’re no villain. You could never be that. Not to me. I love you, Silas Cruz. I have loved you for a very very long time. And I will love you for the rest of my life. No matter what.” That last part comes without conscious thought and again, mimics what he said just moments ago. It’s a strange thing to say, for both of us. There’s a feeling that seems to have attached itself to the words that I can’t quite name but it makes me uneasy.

I kiss him to banish those feelings, those thoughts.

“You’re very philosophical tonight,” Silas says, perhaps sensing my unease.

I smile, shrug, glad for this lighter note.

“And you didn’t come,” he says and flips us over so he’s on his back. He kisses me and grips my hips, drawing me up across his body. “Put your hands on the headboard,” he tells me when I’m straddling his chest.

I swallow hard, looking down at him, knowing what he’ll do. I grip the headboard.

“Good girl. Now, come here and put your pussy on my face. I’m starved,” he says, and he shifts his gaze from my eyes to my sex as he draws me down onto his mouth.

All I can do at the first swipe of his tongue over my clit is close my eyes and moan. I grind against his face, his tongue inside me, where his cock had been, licking me, tasting me, my arousal mixing with his come until I am panting, begging for more and begging him to stop at once. Until I can’t breathe from all the sensations.

19

SILAS

Ipour Ophelia and myself a fresh glass of wine and turn the oven back on. My phone buzzes with a text and I dig it out of my pocket.

It’s Sly.

I glance up, hearing Ophelia on the stairs, and open the text.

Sly: Can’t imagine what we need to talk about.

Me: I have an offer for you.

Sly: What kind of offer would that be?

“The fire died down,” Ophelia says from the hallway.

Me: You want to save your company? We meet. Tonight. Alone.

Three dots pulsate as he types, then stop, then start again. Ophelia turns the corner into the kitchen, her hair, which is wet from our shower, in a braid. She looks fresh and happy.

The phone buzzes and I drag my gaze to it.

Sly: I’m at the office. Be here for another hour.

I tuck the phone into my pocket and watch Ophelia as she checks on the oven. “Want some salad to start? This is going to take a while.”

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