Page 288 of Fractured Allegiance
The door creaks as we step inside.
Silas drops his jacket over the back of a chair and sinks onto the couch. For a long time, he just sits there, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor. His shirt is torn at the shoulder, streaked with dried blood. I move to the counter, find a half-empty bottle of whiskey Elias probably left behind, and pour two fingers into each glass.
When I hand one to Silas, his hand brushes mine, warm and rough. He studies me for a second, then takes it. “To what?” he asks.
“Surviving,” I say.
He clinks his glass against mine. “Barely.”
The whiskey burns its way down, sharp enough to make me cough once. He doesn’t even flinch. The man could drink gasoline and call it water.
After a while, I set the glass down and cross the room. He watches me, silent, his gaze tracking every movement like a habit he can’t unlearn. When I reach him, I stop between his knees, close enough that he can feel my pulse through the air.
“You keep staring,” I say.
He tilts his head up, eyes catching the dim light. “You keep being worth staring at.”
The words shouldn’t make my skin heat the way they do. But I’ve been running on adrenaline and violence for too long, and now there’s nothing left to hide behind.
I rest my hands on his shoulders. “You ever get tired of pretending you’re made of stone?”
“Every day,” he says. “But I keep doing it.”
“Why?”
“Because if I stop, I’ll do something stupid.”
“Like what?”
He leans forward, his voice softer. “Like touch you until I forget what comes next.”
My pulse jumps. “Maybe you should.”
He studies my face, searching for something. Maybe permission. Maybe the same madness that’s been pulling at both of us since the first night in the club. Then he stands, and suddenly he’s too close, his breath mixing with mine, his body heat wrapping around me like fire.
“You sure?” he asks.
I nod once. “No more masks.”
And then his lips find mine, there’s nothing gentle about it. It’s not a kiss meant to soothe—it’s a collision, an aftermath. I taste smoke, sweat, and something sharper: relief turned to hunger. He presses me back until my spine meets the wall, the plaster cool against overheated skin.
I drag my hands up his chest, feeling every rise and fall of muscle, every tremor he tries to hide. His shirt catches on my fingers, the buttons slipping loose one by one until my palms find skin. He’s warm and rough and solid, the kind of anchor I’ve never let myself need.
He pulls back just enough to look at me, his voice rough. “Tell me you want this.”
I don’t answer. I just grab his collar and pull him down again.
That’s enough for him.
The kiss deepens with less fury now, more gravity. His mouth moves against mine like it’s mapping territory. His hands trace the edge of my ribs, memorizing every scar, every shiver. Each touch is a confession we’ll never speak aloud.
When his fingers slide under the hem of my shirt, I inhale sharply. His hand stills, waiting for a cue I don’t give. I take his wrist and press it higher, guiding him until his palm rests over my heart.
“Feel that?” I say against his mouth. “That’s what you started.”
He doesn’t move his hand. “I want you to finish it.”
There’s no rush. No dominance. Just heat, coiled and patient, building with every inch of space we erase. The air feels thick enough to drink. The world outside could burn again, and neither of us would stop.
