The Silver Flame

Chapter 3: The Performance

She didn't sleep all night.

Not because she was afraid. Okay, not only because of that. It was because her brain refused to quiet down.

Kane's words played on a loop in her head, a broken record she couldn't skip.

Blood-Oath Mark.

You're my mate.

Fated.

She lay in the ridiculously comfortable bed, staring at the ornate crystal chandelier on the ceiling, dissecting those three sentences.

She'd never heard the term. Her only connection to the werewolf world was the half-marked "mistake" gene in her blood. She never knew werewolves had "mates". Or, she knew, but she thought it was a fairy tale. A werewolf fairy tale. As unreliable as the human concept of "love at first sight."

He hadn't said it like a love declaration. More like… a man reading his own life sentence.

She didn't believe in fate.

Fate was a word the rich used to explain their luck and the poor used to explain their misery.

Her fate had been sealed from the moment she was born—half-wolf, lesser, powerless to change anything.

But the silver fire was real.

She raised her right arm, examining the altered scar. It didn't glow in the dark, it just lay there.

As if everything that afternoon was a hallucination conjured by an overworked mind.

But the moment her fingertips brushed the scar, she felt it.

His heartbeat. Not her own.

Hers was fast, frantic, a panicked rabbit in her chest. This heartbeat was slow, steady, powerful, a relentless drumbeat.

Kane's heartbeat.

There was no way she could know that. But she did.

Fuck.

She pulled her hand away, turned over, buried her face in the pillow.

7:15 AM the next day.

Eliana stood in the kitchen, wearing the change of clothes the secretary had delivered last night.

She didn't know who picked them. She chose not to think about it.

The coffee machine gurgled. Bacon sizzled in the pan. As the toast popped up, she heard footsteps behind her.

Bare feet on marble.

She didn't turn.

"Coffee's on the right," she said. "Bacon crispy or soft?"

A two-second silence.

"Crispy."

Kane's voice was lower, rougher with sleep, than she'd ever heard it.

She forked the bacon onto a plate lined with paper towels. Turned.

He stood on the other side of the kitchen island.

His black hair wasn't slicked back, falling over his forehead. He was shirtless—she quickly averted her gaze, but her peripheral vision had already captured enough—broad shoulders, narrow waist, the full tattoo below his collarbone—coiling vines framing an animal skull.

He took the coffee, drank. His gaze watched her over the rim.

"What time did you get up?"

"Six-thirty."

"I said the car would be here at 7:30."

"I'm an early riser."

He set the mug down. The bacon made a crisp snap between his teeth.

"You're not just an early riser," he said. "You have sleep issues. How many times did you toss and turn last night?"

She bit the inside of her lip.

He monitored my sleep.

No. Werewolf hearing—she kept forgetting.

"What were you thinking about?"

"Thinking about why you're not eating the toast."

He glanced at the toast as if seeing it for the first time.

"Carbs," he said. "Unnecessary."

"You need energy."

"I get my energy elsewhere."

His gaze shifted from the toast to her eyes.

Meat, she answered in her head. He means meat. i***t.

The corner of his mouth twitched. Not a smile. But she didn't know what it was.

"Your tasks for today," he set the mug down, picked up the last slice of bacon. "Organize last week's meeting minutes. Contact three suppliers for final quotes. Get the draft of the quarterly report on my desk by 2 PM."

"Okay."

"One more thing."

"What?"

"Several elders from the group are visiting today. They might ask you questions. Do not answer anything about your personal background."

"What if they ask?"

"Say that's Mr. Kane's private matter." His voice held no warmth.

"Okay."

He watched her for a few seconds.

"You're very compliant today," he noted.

"I'm compliant every day, Mr. Kane."

"You questioned me yesterday."

"That was a mistake," she lowered her head, taking the toast from the toaster. "It won't happen again."

Silence.

She felt the weight of his gaze on the top of her head.

"Eliana."

She looked up.

"You're very compliant today," he repeated, but the tone had shifted. "But I can smell that nothing's changed. You're just as tense," he paused, "You're performing."

Her smile didn't falter.

"I'm your assistant, Mr. Kane. My job is to make you feel like everything is under control."

She carried the coffee to the living room, her steps not a beat out of place.

From the kitchen behind her, she heard him release a soft sound—part sigh, part scoff.

10:30 AM.

Conference Room.

Three older werewolves, impeccably dressed, seated at the head of the long table. The way they looked at Eliana wasn't the usual "you're wallpaper" stare. This was a "you're an intruder" stare.

Kane sat at the head, expressionless. Raven stood behind him like a silent statue.

"Kane," the eldest elder, Drake, spoke. His voice like gravel on stone. "I heard you've taken on an… assistant."

"A half-wolf assistant."

"Species is not a hiring criterion."

"In this city, species has always been the criterion," Drake's gaze shifted to Eliana. "What's your surname?"

Eliana glanced at Kane.

He gave a slight, nearly imperceptible nod.

"Eliana Walker," she said.

"Do you know what the surname 'Walker' means in Old English?"

"I—"

"It means 'a fuller of cloth.' A lower-class name," Drake leaned back in his chair. "Do you know what pure-blood surnames usually come from? Territories. Battle honors. Bloodlines."

Eliana's nails dug into her palms.

"I didn't know that," she said. "Thank you for sharing."

Drake's eyebrow twitched—he clearly hadn't expected that. He'd expected discomfort, silence, or best, tears. But she'd given him nothing. A blank, polite, flawless smile.

"I'm not interested in your surname," Drake changed tack. "I'm interested in your purpose. Who placed you here?"

"That's Mr. Kane's private matter."

"I'm not asking Kane. I'm asking you."

"My answer is the same, sir."

Kane tapped a single finger on the table.

"Drake," his voice was quiet, but the elder's jaw tightened. "My assistant is not on today's agenda."

"Kane, I'm concerned about—"

"My private matters are not your concern."

Each word was like ice.

Drake closed his mouth.

The meeting began. Financial data, market share, quarterly forecasts.

Eliana's fingers flew over the keyboard, recording every figure. Her expression didn't change, the smile remained, the posture stayed perfect.

But between the numbers and charts, beneath her skin, something was simmering.

1:45 PM.

Kane's Office.

She placed the draft of the quarterly report on his desk.

Right side.

"The supplier quotes aren't all in," she said. "Two of the three were confirmed. The third said they'd send it by the end of the day."

Kane flipped through the report, a slight frown on his brow.

"The sales data on page two is missing a quarterly comparison."

She handed over another file. "I made a separate table with three years of comparative data in the appendix."

He took the appendix, flipped through it.

"When did you do this?"

"This morning."

"During the meeting?"

"In the gaps."

He looked up at her.

"You're efficient," he said. Not a compliment. More like stating an uncomfortable fact.

"My job is to satisfy you, Mr. Kane."

"You've said that three times today."

"Repetition doesn't make it less true."

He set the report down.

"Do you know what 'Walker' really means in Old English?"

She paused.

"Though Drake wasn't entirely wrong. In an earlier form, 'Walker' meant 'one who walks on damp ground.' An edge-walker. Someone who belongs nowhere."

He stood, circled the desk, walked toward her.

"There's something about you that's deeper than you show," he stopped in front of her. "What are you hiding?"

"I'm not—"

"You are. From the first day of the interview, you have been. You've locked your real thoughts away somewhere, sealed tight."

He reached out.

She took a step back.

He stopped.

"I won't hurt you," he said, his voice dropping. "But I want to know what you're afraid of."

His fingers—not touching her, hovering in the air—stopped a centimeter above her collarbone.

The heat beneath her skin flared again.

"Eliana."

It was the first time he'd used just her name.

She looked into his eyes.

Black, deep, something burning inside. Something older, more primal.

"Kane," she said, using only his name.

His pupils contracted.

He took a step forward, his fingers touching her chin, tipping her face up. "You're angry at the world that makes you pretend."

His thumb brushed her cheekbone.

The fire beneath her skin jumped.

"You're angry," he repeated. "But not at me. Why?"

"Because you're my boss."

"Liar."

His other hand came up, bracing on the bookshelf behind her.

Her voice finally wavered, "Because you know too much—my resume, my mother's address. You know everything. And I know nothing about you."

"What do you want to know?"

"Why tell me the truth?"

"What truth?"

"The Blood-Oath Mark," she said. Her voice dropped lower. "You didn't have to. You could have locked me in here, treated me like… I don't know, an experiment. But you didn't. Why?"

Someone passed in the hallway. Footsteps sounded outside the door, then faded.

"Because you deserved to know," he finally said. "You shouldn't be kept in the dark."

His thumb slid from her cheekbone to her chin, giving it a light pinch.

"Go back to work. Eliana."

"Okay. Kane."

She didn't say 'sir'.

The corner of his mouth twitched again. This time she was sure—it wasn't a smile. It was restraint.

10:00 PM.

The Penthouse.

She sat on the living room sofa, laptop on her knees, reviewing the third supplier's quote email.

Kane walked in from the hall. Already changed into dark lounge wear, his hair still damp, water droplets falling from the tips onto his shoulders.

He sat on the other end of the sofa. Three cushion lengths between them.

"Quote came?"

"It did. Twelve percent higher than the other two."

"Reason?"

"Raw material price hike. They suggest a long-term contract to lock in the price."

"Draft a recommendation report. Have it on my desk tomorrow morning."

"Okay."

Silence.

The TV was off. The city lights glittered outside the window.

"You asked why I told you the truth," his voice came from the other end of the sofa, low, as if speaking to himself. "Because if I kept it from you, you'd be more afraid. The more afraid you are, the more unstable your power might become."

"I don't know if it was the right choice," he turned his head to look at her. Moonlight fell on his profile, lighting half his face, leaving the other half in shadow. "But I want you to know. The Blood-Oath Mark wasn't my choice. If I could choose, I wouldn't choose you."

Something hit her in the chest.

"Why?" she heard herself ask.

"Because you'd be my weakness. And in this world, weaknesses are exploited."

"But since Fate has decided for me—I'll protect you. Whether you want it or not."

"I don't need your protection."

"You do."

"You don't even know what power you have," he cut her off, but didn't raise his voice. "When Drake insulted you in the meeting today, your fingers were trembling. Not from fear. Something in your blood was provoked. I could feel it."

He sat up a little straighter.

"I can feel everything about you, Eliana. Your heartbeat, your anger, your fear." His gaze dropped to the scar on her right arm.

She stared at him.

His expression hadn't changed. Cold, controlled, like a wall.

But her fingertips—the ones on her right hand—felt something.

Not warmth. Not fire.

A vibration.

A very faint, heartbeat-like vibration.

His heartbeat.

She looked down at her scar. In the moonlight, it seemed to glow a little brighter.

She looked up, about to tell him.

But Kane was already standing, walking toward the hall.

"Goodnight," he said, not turning.

Alone in the moonlight, her right hand pressed against the scar on her arm, she listened as her own heartbeat overlapped with another—a rhythm she had no right to hear.

Her fingers pressed hard against the scar, as if trying to grasp something that was slipping away.

Her phone lit up.

A new message. Unknown number.

He's seen you. He's pleased. Continue.

She stared at the screen, thumb hovering over the delete button.

No reply. No deletion.

She simply switched the phone off, placed it screen-down on the nightstand.

Beneath her skin, the silver fire gave a single, sharp pulse.

Not warmth, but a warning.