Page 60 of Filthy Rich Silver Foxes
Of course he can. Of course he will.
I nod, but I don’t like it.
This isn’t like Elise. Elise was volatile and sharp and saw me as a challenge to break. She wanted power. And money. From me, from Sebastian, that didn’t seem to matter. Genevieve just wants peace.
And I want her in a way that makes no logical sense.
Which is a problem.
Because logic is usually the one thing I can count on.
* * *
I knock once and let myself into Silas’s place. He doesn’t lock the door when he’s expecting someone. The man’s casual disregard for basic security would infuriate me if I didn’t already know he has a security system most art galleries would envy.
And the man can take care of himself. He used to play professional football—linebacker. That position isn’t for the faint of heart. It’s all brute force and explosive motion, designed for taking hits and giving worse. His body still carries the proof.
The lights are dimmed when I step inside, which is odd. There’s something bluesy floating through the air from his sound system—a low, lazy trumpet over brushed drums. The kind of music Silas only puts on when he’s unwinding or trying to get someone else to.
I hesitate just inside the threshold. There’s no sign of him. There’s just the subtle hum of his building’s radiant heat, the faint scent of whatever overpriced candle he’s currently obsessed with, and that music.
Maybe he forgot I was coming. Or maybe he didn’t. Maybe he has company and he just doesn't care.
Silas has never been discreet about the women in and out of his life. He flirts, charms, disappears, and resurfaces with new names, new faces, the same smirk. Normally, I wouldn’t think twice about it.
But lately…
Lately, he's been orbiting Genevieve St. Claire with the kind of intensity that borders on obvious. He continually shows up to meetings he hasn’t been invited to. Drops her name into conversation. Brings her coffee and treats. Laughs louder around her. Watches her in that open, hungry way he has when he’s already half gone for someone and doesn’t care who knows it.
So, if there’s someone here now…
My chest tightens.
Not that it should. Not that I have any right.
I round the corner into the living room. And stop cold.
She’s here.
Genevieve is curled on the corner of the sectional, one hand tucked beneath her cheek, the other resting limply across her stomach. She’s out cold.
She’s wearing an oversized sweatshirt—his, I realize, from the old team logo faint on the chest—and a pair of leggings. Her hair’s loose and messy, her face bare. She looks young, even younger than she is.
Soft in a way I haven’t seen before.
I don’t move. I just stand there, watching her sleep.
Silas appears from the hallway, barefoot, drying his hands on a dish towel. “Hey,” he says, voice low. He glances past me and follows my gaze. “Didn’t know if you were still coming.”
I nod once, distracted. “She okay?”
He exhales, crossing to the couch to pull a throw blanket over her legs. “Long day.”
That’s all he says. But his eyes linger on her.
“You feeding her now?” I ask. It comes out sharper than intended.
He grins, unbothered. “Somebody should.”
