POV: Ivy
The air in the lower levels of the Vane Estate didn't smell like sandalwood or expensive scotch. It smelled of damp concrete, ozone, and the metallic tang of old fear.
Silas hadn't spoken a word since he’d carried me out of the study. He had held me against his chest with a grip so tight I could feel the individual muscles of his forearms through the silk of my robe. He was a silent storm, a localized weather system of rage and possessiveness.
We weren't in the "basement." We were in the "Black Zone"—a soundproofed bunker built into the very bedrock of the cliffside.
"Silas, put me down," I whispered, my voice echoing off the sterile, white-tiled walls.
He didn't listen. He didn't even acknowledge I’d spoken. He walked toward a heavy steel door, his boots making a final, echo
