The mansion was still asleep when Silas made his decision.
Not impulsive.
Not reckless.
Calculated—as everything in his life had to be.
The memory of her wrist lingered in his mind, refusing to fade with the passing hours. He could still feel the delicate bones beneath his fingertips, the warmth of her skin that had seeped into his palm.
The way she hadn't pulled away, though every instinct must have screamed at her to do so. The way her breath had hitched—sharp, audible in the quiet kitchen—but her hand remained open in his, trembling yet steady.
Truce.
That was what the kitchen had been. A fragile thing, born of exhaustion and honesty in the small hours when defences crumbled.
But Silas didn't trust truces. He'd seen too many broken, too many promises dissolved like sugar in rai
