CHAPTER 4; CONTROL FREAK
745 Words
Elena’s POV
If Silas Noir had a talent, it was ruining perfectly good moments. My breakfast? Ruined. My mood? Shattered. My peace of mind? Nonexistent.
It had only been twenty-four hours, and I was already convinced this man had crawled out of the depths of a gothic fantasy to personally test my sanity.
I was sprawled out on the wooden floor of the sunroom, paintbrushes scattered around me, an unfinished canvas before me. It was supposed to be a calming morning. A new painting. A new beginning.
But no. Of course not.
Just as I dipped my brush into a deep shade of crimson, I heard footsteps.Rhythmic. Heavy. Controlled.
Of course, it was him.
"This is not an art studio," Silas said, voice smooth as silk and twice as cold.
I didn’t look up. "And you’re not an art critic, so maybe stay in your lane."
"Your supplies are on my floors. The same floors I pay to be cleaned."
I snorted. "Then maybe you should tell your maid to chill. Or better yet, hire a second one since clearly, your neat freak tendencies are pathological."
He stepped closer, shadows swallowing the space around me. "You’re infuriating."
"Thank you. I try."
I looked up finally, catching the sharp line of his jaw, the way his eyes glinted like a midnight storm. Damn it. Why did he have to be so irritating and attractive?
He crouched down to my level, barely a foot away. "You think this is cute? Testing my patience?"
My heart pounded. I lifted my chin defiantly. "You think you scare me?"
His eyes dropped to my lips. Just for a second. But I saw it.
"No," he said softly, "I think you want me to."
My breath got caught in my throat.
"You’re delusional."
He stood up, towering over me. "Then prove me wrong. Clean this mess up."
"When I’m done," I said, flicking a blob of paint at the floor just to spite him.
His jaw tightened. "You’re a child."
"And you’re a control freak with god-complex issues."
We glared at each other for another tense beat before he turned on his heel and walked away. I may or may not have thrown a paintbrush at his back the moment he was gone.
The rest of the day passed in a series of near-misses and deliberate avoidance. But that night, everything exploded again.
I had my earbuds in, dancing in the kitchen like an i***t while trying to make pancakes at midnight. Because that’s who I was the type who finds therapy in carbs and 2000s pop music.
I didn’t hear the door open. Didn’t hear the footsteps.
But I did feel the chill crawl up my spine when I turned around to find Silas leaning against the wall, arms crossed, gaze pinned to me.
I yanked the earbuds out. "What?!"
He didn’t speak. He just stared.
Then, finally: "You’re... dancing."
"Yes, Silas. People do that. It's called joy. You should try it."
"It’s midnight."
"Again, people are awake at that hour. Revolutionary, I know."
He walked closer, eyes sharp. "You’re making a mess again."
"I’ll clean it." I turned my back to him, flipping a pancake. "You always act like I’m invading your precious silence. Did it ever occur to you that maybe you need a little chaos in your life?"
He moved fast. Too fast.
One moment, I was flipping pancakes. The next, he was behind me, his hand closing gently but firmly over mine.
"Careful," he said, voice low. "You’ll burn yourself."
My breath hitched. His hand was warm. Strong. Steady.
I looked up at him. He was too close.
Too intense.
Too everything.
"Why do you hate me so much?" I whispered.
He didn’t answer right away. His gaze flicked between my eyes and my lips.
"Because you’re loud. You’re messy. You make this house feel... alive."
I blinked.
"That’s not a bad thing."
"It is for me."
We stared at each other like we were about to go to war. Or kiss. Or both.
Then I broke the moment by pushing him back.
"Get out of my kitchen, Mr.."
He chuckled an actual chuckle. It was deep, rich, and infuriatingly sexy.
"Fine. Enjoy your midnight sugar rush. Just don’t set the house on fire."
And with that, he left me breathless, annoyed, and wildly confused.
I hated him.
He hated me.
And I had no idea why it felt so damn good to fight with him.
- Writer
