Chapter 12
1033 Words
The steam from the shower had long since vanished, leaving the bathroom smelling of cedar and whatever suspiciously expensive soap Silas used. Roxanne stood in front of the massive vanity mirror, wrapped in a silk robe that cost more than her car but felt about as thick as a paper towel. She scrubbed her face until it was pink, trying to wash off the "Vane family" grime, the weight of the lie to Mia, and the general sense that she was living in a very fancy, very dangerous fever dream.
She stepped back into the bedroom, and her toes immediately sank into the charcoal carpet. It was so soft she half-expected it to swallow her whole.
Silas was already there. He had traded the $5,000 suit for a plain black t-shirt and dark pajama pants. Without the armor of his blazer, he looked less like a looming threat and more like a guy who desperately needed a high-calorie sandwich and ten hours of sleep. He was sitting on the edge of the bed, staring at his hands as if he’d forgotten how they worked.
The air in the room wasn't "dark and brooding"—it was just... awkward. The kind of awkward that makes you want to vibrate out of your own skin.
"The sofa in the sitting room is actually pretty decent," Silas said without looking up. His voice was a raspy low hum. "I’ve slept on concrete at the base before. You take the bed, Roxanne. You’ve had a hell of a day."
Roxanne leaned against the bedpost, pulling her robe tighter. "And what happens when your mother—the 'Warm Bear'—bursts in here at 6:00 AM with freshly squeezed orange juice and finds the Don curled up on a velvet loveseat while the 'fiancée' is in here alone? She’s a mom, Silas. She’ll know. They have a sixth sense for when their kids are lying about their love lives."
Silas finally looked at her, his grey eyes bloodshot. "My mother doesn't burst. She... glides. But you're right. She’d see the lack of a second pillow indent and start an interrogation that would make a cartel boss weep."
He stood up, his height suddenly very apparent in the quiet room. He gestured to the bed—a literal island of silk and down that could easily fit a small family. "It’s a King-sized bed. Appropriately named for you. There’s enough room for us to exist in different zip codes. I promise to stay on my side of the border."
Roxanne looked at the bed, then at him. Her "Sassy PI" armor was currently at the dry cleaners. "Fine. But I’m telling you now, I’m a star-fisher. I move. If you get kicked in the ribs, it’s a professional hazard."
"I’ve survived worse," Silas muttered, a ghost of a real smile tugging at his lips.
The act of actually getting into the bed was comedy in its purest form. They moved like they were navigating a minefield. Roxanne hopped under the duvet on the far left, clutching her side of the covers like a shield. Silas sat on the far right, the mattress barely dipping under his weight. He reached over and clicked off the lamp, plunging them into the soft, orange glow of the dying fire.
Silence. Pure, unadulterated silence.
"You know, Silas," Roxanne whispered, staring at the ceiling. "You’re a weird guy. You have this total double personality."
She heard a faint rustle as he turned his head toward her in the dark. "A double personality? Is that the PI diagnosis?"
"Think about it," she said, gesturing vaguely with one hand. "One second you’re laughing at a joke, looking almost... human. And then a second later, the lights go out in your eyes and it’s like you’re ready to serve someone’s head on a silver platter. It’s a bit much for one person to carry."
Silas went quiet for a long beat. "In this life, Roxanne, the 'laughing' version of me is the luxury. The version that serves heads? That’s the one that keeps the laughing version alive. It’s not a personality. It’s a survival kit."
Roxanne turned on her side, propping her head up on her arm to look at him. "And Killian? He’s the one who gave up the 'Ice King' seat for you? Why? He seems like the type who’d enjoy the power."
"Killian hates the fake smiles," Silas said, his voice dropping into a tired rasp. "He’d rather be at the base with the soldiers. He’s the iron. He didn't want the crown because he knows the politics would make him miserable. He’s happier being the guy who keeps the engine running while I navigate the storm."
"And Jules?" she asked. "The childhood friend. You really trust a guy who’s that impulsive?"
"He’s the son of my father’s best friend," Silas replied softly. "He’s family in every way that matters. He has the charm I lack. He’s the one who keeps the men motivated when they’re tired of the cold."
Roxanne narrowed her eyes. "Impulsive men are dangerous, Silas. They feel slighted easily. They act on 'gut feelings' instead of facts. If I were you, I'd keep a closer eye on the 'Brotherhood' than on the enemies outside the gate."
"And Cassian?" Silas asked, a bit of amusement returning to his voice.
"The digital ghost," Roxanne murmured, laying back down. "He’s fine. He’s too busy trying to hack the moon to bother with a betrayal. But Jules... he’s the classic 'Inside Man' archetype. Just saying."
"Go to sleep, Roxanne," Silas chuckled. "Tomorrow I take you to the base. It smells like diesel, gunpowder, and bad coffee. You’ll probably feel right at home."
"I live for bad coffee, Silas. Don't threaten me with a good time."
As she felt sleep finally pulling at her, the absurdity of the night settled in. She was sharing a bed with the city’s most feared man, critiquing his leadership style while his mother probably dreamed of wedding flowers downstairs.
"Silas?"
"Goodnight, Roxanne."
- Writer
