Page 58 of Closer Than You Think
“Good work,” he says quietly, his voice carrying the weight of command and something else, something like pride. “You took him down.”
My chest heaves with each labored breath, sweat and tears mingling on my skin. I nod, looking up at Silas, seeking . . . something. Reassurance? Approval? Or maybe permission forthe violent thought that's gnawing at my mind. “He hurt me, Silas. He would have killed me.”
I realize I’ve pushed myself up and now stand over Blake with the branch firmly in my uninjured hand.
“Let me handle this, Hallie,” Silas responds, his tone leaving no room for argument. But there is gentleness there too, an unspoken promise that he's here to protect me, to guide me through the darkness he knows all too well.
“Please, Si . . . ” I whisper, my voice barely audible. The need for retribution fills me, fierce and demanding. “I want to make him pay.”
Silas reaches out, his rough hand cupping my cheek, grounding me. “You've already shown how strong you are. Don't stain your soul with his blood. It's not your burden to bear. You’re the light, Hallie. I’ll be all the dark you need.”
His words wash over me, and I realize he's right. The strength I've found today isn't meant for murder—it's for survival, for overcoming the terror that has stalked me since Blake turned on us. I drop the branch, its purpose served, and let Silas pull me close, his embrace both protective and possessive.
He kisses me, his mouth crashing onto mine with a fierce claiming. I don’t know how long we stand there, kissing in the forest, but when he pulls away, I don’t feel the pain of my wrist anymore.
“Come on, baby. You can watch.” Silas's voice slices through the tension like a blade. “I love that you saved yourself, Hallie.” His words are a caress against the cold air, but his eyes are steel as he steps over the underbrush toward Blake. “But I won't let you become a killer.”
Blake surprises us by staggering to his feet, wiping blood from his split lip. He sways, disoriented, and in that moment of weakness, Silas is upon him. The former soldier's movementsare a blur—efficient, precise, every strike calculated to incapacitate without killing. Blake's attempts to defend himself are sluggish, his once intimidating presence reduced to that of a cornered animal.
From where I stand, the scene unfolds like a silent movie; I can only hear the rustle of leaves and the thud of bodies. Silas's pent-up rage fuels each takedown, his protective instinct manifesting in every controlled punch and block. This dark dance between them, it speaks of betrayal and loyalty, of a brotherhood fractured beyond repair.
“Stay back, Hallie,” Silas commands without looking at me. I obey, rooted to the spot by a mix of awe and horror. Watching this man—this force of nature—defend me with such ferocity, it ignites something primal within me. Fear melds with admiration, and I know that Silas Thatcher, with all his shadows, is the one constant in my unraveling world.
Silas’s fists fly like hammers of wrath, each blow a promise to protect what's ours. Blake stumbles back, his breath ragged, arms flailing in a desperate bid to fend off the onslaught.
After a particular rough punch to Blake’s jaw, Silas pulls a knife from a holster on his boot. I watch him twirl it in his fingers for a moment, his gaze raking over Blake, as if deciding exactly how he will end him.
I’m torn between the urge to rush to his side and the knowledge that this is his world, one where I'm still learning the rules.
“Never again,” Silas snarls, each word punctuated by another strike. “You will never touch her again. You’ll never breathe again.”
With a deep growl, he plunges the knife into Blake’s gut, twisting it and dragging it downward, leaving a gaping hole in Blake’s abdomen. Blood spills out as Blake convulses, and Silas just watches with a satisfied grin.
In that instant, I see the man I love—the protector, the darkness and the light. My breath catches as I realize that this man is the embodiment of all my fears and desires. And I accept him, wholly, his shadows entwined with his light, just as he has accepted mine.
He rises up, wiping his knife on his shirt and holstering it once more.
“How badly are you hurt?” His voice is rough with concern as he steps over Blake's inert form, closing the distance between us in long, determined strides.
“My wrist, but it’s okay.”
Silas reaches me then, his hands moving over me with a tenderness that belies their strength. One hand cradles the back of my head while the other gently examines my injury, his touch careful not to worsen the pain.
“Help is coming. Cain went to get the others.”
“Si, I—” My words falter, emotion thickening my throat. The man before me is both Silas Thatcher, the assassin cloaked in darkness, and my Silas, the protector whose heart beats fiercely with love and loyalty.
“Shh, don't speak.” He pulls me into his embrace, a shelter in the midst of chaos. His arms wrap around me, strong and unyielding yet impossibly gentle. “We'll be out of here soon.”
I close my eyes, allowing myself to lean into him, to absorb the warmth and safety he offers. The scent of pine and earth mingles with the iron tang of blood, but beneath it all is the grounding smell of leather and gun oil—the scent of Silas. It's a reminder of who he is, what he does, and yet it brings me comfort.
“Thank you,” I breathe against his chest, my heart finding its rhythm against his. “For everything.”
“Thank you,” he says, “for saving yourself.”
The sound of ATVs approaching breaks our trance, and I see the team arriving in the distance.
“Let's get you somewhere safe,” he says, pulling back just enough to look into my eyes. There's resolve there, and promise. “We're not done yet.”
