The drive back to the manor was silent, the kind of silence that feels like a physical weight pressing against your chest. The interior of the limousine smelled of Silas’s expensive bourbon and the fading, floral scent of my jasmine perfume a scent that now felt like a funeral shroud. Silas stared out the window, his jaw set in a hard, jagged line. Every time a streetlight passed, his profile was etched in a harsh glow, looking more like a vengeful statue than the man who had just held me on the dance floor.
He knew. He didn't have proof yet, but Silas Thorne didn't need proof to smell blood in the water.
“You’re quiet, Elena,” he said. His voice was a low, vibrating growl that made the fine hairs on my arms stand up. “Usually, after a gala, you have a dozen sharp critiques about the boa
