“Put me down, Silas.”
Selena took a deep, steadying breath, her voice a low, dangerous vibration of suppressed fury.
Silas Veylor did not answer. His jaw was a hard, angular line of tension as he ignored her command. He carried her up the grand staircase and straight into her bedroom, moving with a silent, predatory focus. He set her down with uncharacteristic gentleness on the velvet sofa. He reached out to lift the hem of her damp skirt, his intention clear: he needed to find the medicinal kit.
He knew his mistress. Selena loathed filth; her outdoor clothes were never allowed to touch her bed. But more than that, Silas was haunted by the memory of Adrian’s hands. He had seen that man’s fingers brush her waist, her cheek, and the delicate curve of her ear.
He needed to clean her. He n
