Chapter 11- The Ten-Foot Line
1403 Words
“Who is Dominic Mercer?”
Silas’s voice sounds like thunder even though the question is asked softly. He is standing by the kitchen island, holding a glass of water. His tuxedo jacket has long been discarded while his dress shirt is half open, the sleeves rolled past his forearms to reveal the tattoos I haven’t gotten the chance to inspect.
I don't answer him immediately. I can’t.
I have just kicked off my four-inch Jimmy Choos and look even more vulnerable being only a few feet away from a man who’s a few inches past six feet tall and built like a brick wall.
The Butcher.
Yes, I am not wearing my heels, and I’m talking to the Butcher, but somehow, I am not afraid. I sigh and throw my designer clutch at a chair. It lands with a metallic clack.
“Didn’t I say who he was?” I turn the question back at him in what I hope is a nonchalant voice. “He has some stakes in my dad’s empire. He’s a big deal, especially after his dad passed on the seat of power to him.”
“Harper.”
I try not to whimper. It’s just my name. Somehow, he strips his usual sarcasm and arrogance from it, and it does something to me. I am not sure I like it.
“What?” I snap, my spine going straight as a ruler. I cross my arms over the front of my dress, not meaning to look so defensive.
Silas doesn't move toward me. He stays on his side of the quartz island, giving me space. He takes a slow sip of his water, his dark green eyes tracking my face as he does.
“I know the basics about him,” he says softly as he sets his empty glass down on the counter. “But what I am interested in is who he is to you.”
“Dom- he is a nobody,” I lie. “Just another insufferable and entitled creep. That is all.”
“It didn’t look like it earlier. His name had an effect on you. You turned deathly pale when Alexa mentioned his name for the first time tonight.”
My stomach does a flip. I feel bile rise up my throat. This is not a conversation I am having with my fake beau. No way. I’ve spent a decade perfecting my manners, my career, and my mask. I can’t just throw things out there to a hockey enforcer!
For a moment, I am fifteen again. I wear a pastel dress for a summer fundraiser. Fun and appropriate! Dominic Mercer, twenty-four, handsome and preppy, corners me in one of the back offices. A feeling of helplessness comes over me as the door closes. Then, there’s the lock. The smell of cologne and gin on him ramps up the fear.
“Remember, sweetheart. Nobody is going to ever believe you, even though you are too sweet.”
The door opens a few minutes later before he can do more damage than feel me up. He laughs it off and pays the staff member. I remember her, and I am not mad at her. She is my savior.
I shake the cobwebs from my mind. I am twenty-five now. Not fifteen. I am no longer sweet and helpless.
“I don’t know what you are thinking. You are reading too much into it, Vane,” I say, piling on the lies. “Of course, I was pale! We’ve had terrible news, and I was overwhelmed. I thought our arrangement would be so easy, but I guess I’m wrong. Your Emma’s photo was - is - a lot to process.”
I don’t look at him.
“Look at me,” he repeats, his tone firmer this time, though still carefully leveled.
I drag my eyes up to meet his. He stands there with his broad chest rising and falling slowly, his arms resting casually on the kitchen island. He has the body of a predator, but at that moment, he is non-threatening.
“I know what violent men are like,” he continues. “On the ice. Off the ice. I’ve seen them. I am one of them…on the ice. But I also know what fear looks like. I saw that in you.”
The room suddenly feels like it’s devoid of oxygen. My pulse races to try to make up for it.
How much does he know? Did he guess?
How?
Panic flares, hot and ugly, burning right through my polished corporate exterior. My protective walls slam back into place with the force of an armored door shutting down.
“You think you saw fear in me?” I ask. “You don’t know me, Vane. I am here in your penthouse because of a contract. We are not here to be best friends. Let’s go back to our real goals. You need this relationship to erase your violence from people’s minds. I need it to rid myself of my snobbish and bitchy persona. I don’t have to tell you anything if it’s not related to our act.”
Silas merely looks at me. He does not shout. He remains calm. Somehow, it makes me furious. How does he get to play the reasonable one?
“Fair enough,” he says quietly.
The immediate surrender throws me completely off-balance. I stand there, breath hitched in my throat, waiting for the defensive rebuttal that never comes.
“I’m not trying to pry into your business, Holloway,” he continues, taking a single, slow step around the counter. He’s back to calling me by my surname. I don’t know why I’m disappointed.
He stops at the edge of the rug, keeping a solid ten feet of space between us. “And I’m not asking for your life story, either. But we’re about to go to war against Richard Sterling, Chloe Russell, and whoever else is funding this Emma Rhodes leak. If Dominic Mercer is part of the hit squad coming for us... I need to know what I’m swinging at.”
“All I know is that Dominic is willing to ruin lives,” I say, and it is the truth. Partly.
Silas nods once, his jaw flexing tight. The dark green in his eyes darkens into something icy and dangerous. “Okay. Good to know.”
“He’s dangerous, Silas,” I add, my voice dropping. “He’s wealthy, he’s protected, and he knows how to manipulate the media better than anyone in this city.”
“He sounds like an asshole hiding behind his money and influence, ” Silas says plainly, reaching back to grab his water glass. “I deal with those every day.”
A tiny, involuntary huff of air escapes my nose before I can stop it. It’s not quite a laugh, but it’s almost one.
A faint, barely perceptible smirk tugs at the corner of Silas’s mouth, showing that he noticed.
“I’ll leave you to it,” he says, his bare feet slapping softly against the wood floor. “Get some rest. Makeup remover is in your bathroom cupboard where you left it. Advil’s on your nightstand if you’ve got a headache from the gala.”
“How?”
“There’s always been one there,” he replies with a shrug.
I watch his tall, broad silhouette disappear down the corridor. The penthouse falls completely quiet again, save for the low hum of appliances and the distant rumble of the city below.
I take a deep, shaky breath, letting my arms drop to my sides. Then, I head for my bedroom. I walk over to the nightstand, where a bottle of water and two Advil sit waiting for me. I smile.
My mind flies back to the gala. Silas has been nothing but protective. Whoever left finger marks on Emma Rhodes’ wrist hates women.
Silas Vane is an enforcer. He gets paid millions of dollars a year to use his size to intimidate on the ice. The world views him as a mindless, violent animal in an NHL jersey.
Yet, standing in his quiet apartment, looking at the glass of water left for me on my nightstand, a strange, terrifying thought takes root in my chest.
He might be built like a weapon, but he has the observant eyes of a man who sees through me.
- Writer
