Her Salvation, His Damnation

#14.

Grace stood paralyzed, the air in the room suddenly too heavy to breathe. She stared at Tate, searching his face for any sign of a cruel joke, but his features were as unyielding as the stone walls of the mansion.

"Are you crazy?" she whispered, her voice cracking under the weight of his demand.

Tate didn’t flinch. He let the silence hang between them for a long beat, his dark eyes fixed on her. "Do I look like a man who has lost his mind, Grace?"

He stood up slowly. He began to circle her, his steps slow. Grace felt like prey being sized up by a hunter. As he passed behind her, his voice drifted over her shoulder, low and rasping.

"I know you’re likely overwhelmed by all this. The house, the protection, the sudden entry into my life." He stopped in front of her again, his expression cooling into something approaching indifference. "But don't get your hopes too high. I have no interest in you beyond the safety I’m obligated to provide. This is about survival, nothing more. Don't mistake my curiosity for affection."

Grace swallowed hard, her throat tight with a mixture of humiliation and fury. She wanted to snap back, to tell him she wouldn't touch him with a ten foot pole, but the words wouldn't come.

Tate didn't wait for her to find them. He turned and walked away, his stride carrying him out of the room without a backward glance. The moment he was gone, the tension snapped. Grace scrambled to gather the shopping bags, her fingers fumbling with the handles. She fled upstairs, her heart hammering against her ribs as she retreated into her room. She threw the bags onto the bed and cursed Rose’s name under her breath. It was Rose’s teasing, Rose’s insistence on those lace trimmed traps, that had led to this moment of pure, raw exposure.

—

The atmosphere in the prison was a stark contrast. Tate sat on one side of the reinforced glass, his face a mask of iron as the guards led a man into the room.

Silas looked so much like Tate that it was like staring into a twisted mirror. He settled into the chair, a mocking grin spreading across his face as he took in his brother’s bruised nose.

"Well, look at this," Silas drawled, his voice a mirror image of Tate’s but laced with a venomous tone. "The Great King is still breathing. I thought you’d finally died. It’s been six months since you bothered to visit your own blood."

"You know very well my death would be the only news that could satisfy you," Tate replied, his voice flat.

Silas chuckled, a dry, hollow sound. "I won't deny that. Hearing they’d finally put you in the ground? That would be the sweetest song I’ve ever heard." He leaned forward, his eyes sharp. "So, what brought you to this hole? You didn't come here to check on my health."

"Jace," Tate said, ignoring the bait. "I want to know which crew he’s running with. I want to know who his allies are."

Silas locked eyes with Tate, and for a moment, the resemblance between them was terrifying. Then, Silas burst into a loud, echoing laugh that drew the eyes of the guards. "You want me to help you? I’d rather rot in this cell for another decade than tell you a single thing that might make your life easier."

"Your arrogance is going to keep you in that chair until you’re a skeleton, Silas," Tate said, his voice dropping an octave.

"The master of arrogance is sitting right in front of me," Silas shot back, his eyes flashing.

Tate’s fist tightened on the table, the leather of his gloves creaking under the strain. Silas didn't miss the movement. He leaned closer to the glass, a mocking glint in his eyes. "What’s wrong, brother? Is the King of the Viper Kings about to lose his composure in a common prison? Is the crown feeling a little heavy today?"

Tate forced his hand to relax, though his eyes remained cold. "I need every scrap of information you have on Jace. It’s urgent."

Silas raked his eyes over Tate, his expression shifting from mockery to a strange, dark seriousness. "Jace is a flea. He works for whoever pays him, a dozen different enemies at a time. But he isn’t the one you should be watching." He lowered his voice, the humor gone. "The real enemy isn't out on the track. The real enemy is right within your vicinity. He’s breathing your air."

Tate’s brow furrowed, a flicker of irritation crossing his face. "I’ve always hated how you spill this cryptic rubbish when you’re cornered, Silas."

A guard stepped forward, checking his watch. "Time’s up, Mr. Black. You need to wrap this up."

Tate didn't even look at the man. "I will use as much time as I require," he said, his voice like a frost that stopped the guard in his tracks. The man hesitated, then took a step back, his eyes darting away in a cowardly retreat.

Silas watched the exchange with an amused smirk. "I didn't realize you command the police too. No wonder they bend whenever you whistle."

Tate ignored the comment, standing up as the weight of the visit began to settle on him. "We’re done here."

Silas stood as well, the chains on his wrists rattling. The mockery was gone now, replaced by a chillingly dead serious expression. "Keep your eyes open, Tate. If you don't start watching the people you trust, your supposed friends, your own men will be the ones to put the knife in your back."

With that, Silas turned and walked back toward the dark hallway of the cell block, leaving Tate alone in the silence of the visiting room.