Scars of the syndicate

CHAPTER 3

She walked to the window, pulling herself up to look out. The rain had slowed to a drizzle, and the moon was fighting its way through the clouds. Below, on the dark lawn, she saw them.

At first, she thought they were large dogs. But as they moved into the moonlight, she realized they were far too big. Five... six... seven of them. Massive wolves with fur the color of smoke and midnight. They circled the house, their eyes glowing yellow as they looked up at the windows.

They were waiting.

Bianca backed away from the window, her heart racing. She sat on the edge of the bed, clutching the grey shirt to her chest.

An hour passed. Then two.

The door unlocked.

Silas walked in. He had discarded his suit jacket. His white shirt was unbuttoned halfway down, his sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms covered in thick, powerful muscle. He looked raw. He looked dangerous.

He walked to the small bar in the corner and poured a glass of amber liquid. He drank it in one swallow, his throat working as he downed the burn.

"Why do you hate me?" Bianca asked. Her voice was small, but it carried in the quiet room. "I've never met you before today. I've never done anything to you."

Silas set the glass down with a crack. He turned, and for a second, Bianca saw a flash of something in his eyes...not just hatred, but a deep, agonizing pain. It was gone in an instant, replaced by a mask of cold iron.

"You exist," Silas said. "That is enough."

He walked towards her. Bianca wanted to shrink back, but there was nowhere to go. He stopped a foot away from her. He reached out, his hand hovering near her face, she could feel the heat radiating from his palm. He looked at her as if she were a puzzle he wanted to smash.

"You look just like him," Silas whispered, his voice thick with a dark, heavy emotion. "You have his eyes. You have that same arrogant tilt to your chin."

"I am not my father," she whispered.

Silas’s hand suddenly dropped, his fingers curling into a fist. "You are a Moretti. And in this house, that is a death sentence. The only reason you are breathing is because I have a use for you."

He turned his back to her. He grabbed the hem of his shirt and pulled it over his head.

Bianca’s breath caught in her throat. Silas’s back was a nightmare. Across his shoulder blades and down his spine were thick, raised scars. They weren't from a knife or a whip. They looked like they had been torn into him by something with claws. And in the center of his back, scarred over but still visible, was a brand.

She didn't know what it meant. She didn't know the story. But she saw the way his muscles bunched, the way he seemed to be fighting a battle inside his own skin.

He turned back around, his chest bare. He was covered in a light sheen of sweat despite the cold. His eyes were fully amber now, the pupils narrowed. He looked less like a man than she had ever seen him.

"You're going to stay in this room," he said, his voice a low, warning growl. "You're going to do what Greta says. And you are going to stay away from the windows."

"Why?"

Silas stepped closer, his heat overwhelming her. He leaned down, his nose brushing against the pulse at her neck. He inhaled deeply, a long, shivering breath that made her whole body tremble.

"Because my brothers haven't eaten in three days," he whispered into her skin. "And they can smell the Moretti blood on you from the gate."

He backed away, his eyes lingering on her lips for a fraction of a second, a look of pure, hungry loathing before he turned and walked out.

Bianca collapsed onto the bed, the sound of a long, mournful howl rising from the woods outside. It was a sound of hunger. And she knew, with terrifying certainty, that she was the prize.