Page 65 of Silent Schemes
Not for either of us.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Sienna
Three weeks.
That's how long I've been living in Varrick Bane's penthouse, wearing his clothes, sleeping in his bed, forgetting who I'm supposed to be.
Three weeks of pretending this is temporary while my traitorous heart whispers otherwise.
Three weeks of watching him make breakfast, of sparring matches that end with us tangled on the mat, of him looking at me like I'm something more than my father’s weapon.
I'm losing myself, or maybe I'm finding myself.
Either way, it terrifies me.
This morning, I wake before him—a rare occurrence since he barely sleeps.
The digital clock on his nightstand reads 5:30 AM, and the city beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows is still caught between night and day, that liminal space where shadows might be salvation or damnation.
He's on his back, one arm thrown over his head, the sheets riding low on his hips, revealing the collection of scars I've traced with my fingers, my tongue, my teeth.
The early morning light streaming through the windows turns his skin golden, highlights every mark of violence that tells his story.
The newest marks are mine—scratches down his back that have barely healed, a bite mark on his shoulder that's turned purple-blue, the imprint of my fingers on his hips.
Evidence of what we've become to each other.
Evidence that would get us both killed if my father knew.
I’ve done what I’ve needed thus far, fed information to Vincent, hoping it would buy me more time—and it has.
But, I’ve never done this.
I’ve never wanted to not kill a mark… but I don’t want to kill Varrick.
I want to devour him.
He looks younger in sleep, less dangerous.
The harsh lines around his eyes soften, the perpetual tension in his jaw releases.
It's a lie, of course.
Varrick Bane is always dangerous, even when he’s sleeping.
Maybe especially then, because this is when I see him vulnerable, human, lovable.
Especially to me.
I slip out of bed carefully, my bare feet silent on the cold hardwood floor.
My body protests—pleasantly sore from last night when he took his time unraveling me, when he mapped every inch of my skin like he was memorizing me for the war we both know is coming.
I grab his shirt from the floor, slip it on.
It smells like him—expensive cologne and gunpowder and something uniquely Varrick that makes my chest tight.
