Breaking the Beast on Ice

Chapter 2 - The Rules of the Cage

The luxury penthouse at the top of Holloway Towers doesn’t feel like a home. It feels like a beautiful vault.

I’ve been to the Towers before, of course, since my dad owns it. But I’ve never been to the top before. My parents prefer living in a mansion, all of its forty rooms and sprawling estate. I live in a small studio condo myself. I like it there. I live alone.

Not anymore, it seems.

I stand in the large foyer, the heels of my Louboutins clicking sharply against the dark, flawless marble floor. Behind me, the private elevator doors slide shut with a muted, expensive hiss, sealing me inside. Two large, matching leather suitcases sit at my feet. I can always pick up more stuff from my condo.

I don’t want to be here. Every muscle of my body groans in complaint.

"Silas?" I call out.

No answer.

I take a slow breath, rolling the tension out of my shoulders, though my hands remain deep in the pockets of my dress. I like pockets. They are like little hiding places.

My phone vibrates against my thigh, but I ignore it. I can't face the internet right now or answer any calls, for that matter. I can't face the reality of what my father, Grant Holloway, has forced me into.

Instead, I walk further into the penthouse. The entire back wall is made of floor-to-ceiling glass, offering a dizzying, panoramic view of the city skyline. It is breathtaking, but right now, the glass only reminds me of the window I was trapped against earlier, caught between Silas Vane and the paparazzi.

"You're late, Heiress."

I don't flinch. I have spent a lifetime learning how to hide my vulnerabilities. Dare I say I’m damn good at it. I turn slowly, my chin tilted upward, ensuring my expression is one of pure, unbothered disdain.

Silas stands at the edge of the kitchen island. He has shed the custom-tailored suit jacket from earlier. Now, he wears only a black, form-fitting henley shirt with the sleeves pushed up to his elbows, revealing the thick, dense muscle of his forearms and the dark, intricate tattoos wrapping down to his scarred knuckles. He matches the shirt with grey sweatpants.

The Butcher.

"Traffic was heavy," I reply smoothly, crossing my arms. "I also had a talk with my brother. Unlike our dad, he’s actually worried about me. For good reason.”

Silas doesn't smile. He doesn't even blink. His hazel eyes, sharp and predatory, track my movements as I step closer to the living space. There is an unsettling stillness to him. Most men I encounter either grow nervous under my cold glare or attempt to fill the silence with crude, arrogant bluster to mask their intimidation. Silas does neither.

"Your brother manages operations overseas," Silas says, his voice dropping an octave as he leans back against the counter. "He's too far away to help you here. In this apartment, you answer to me."

"I answer to the contract, Silas. Not to you." I step toward the massive leather sofa, looking over the sleek, dark decor. "We are partners making sure this stupid PR stunt actually works.”

Silas chuckles darkly. Does this man even know how to laugh properly? Well, then, I’m not that good at that, either. How will we sell this supposed romance? People will think we are a couple of villains about to join forces and wreck the world. And isn’t that worse?

"You think this is just a game of corporate chess, don't you?" he asks, walking closer and stopping just a few feet away. His expensive cologne floods my senses. "You think you can just wear your little designer suits, put on your perfect makeup, and script every second of my life."

"It's called PR management. And yes, it works, provided the subject can control his urge for violence for more than five minutes." I stare directly into his hazel eyes, refusing to take a step back. "Breaking a defenseman's jaw in a pre-season scrimmage does not only ruin the team, but also yourself. Why are you doing this?”

His jaw tics. Absolute fury darkens his features. For a split second, I wonder if I have pushed the beast too far. I try not to step back and show my fear. Yet, my heart hammers a frantic, erratic rhythm against my ribs.

I am safe, I remind myself fiercely. He won't touch me.

Silas takes one massive step forward, invading my personal space and casting a long shadow over me. "I don't break things unless they deserve to be broken, Miss Holloway. That’s the first thing you should know about me."

"Why did Harris deserve to be broken then?" I challenge, my voice a whisper of pure ice.

"Fine. You want the script? Here are the rules of the cage," Silas rasps, leaning down slightly so his lips are dangerously close to mine. "Rule number one: The cameras only see what I allow them to see. When we are out there, you play the part perfectly. You smile, you take my arm, and you look at me like I'm the only man in the room. That you adore me."

"I can act," I bite out. "I've been doing it my whole life."

"Rule number two," he continues, completely ignoring my interruption. "Inside this penthouse, we stay out of each other's way. Your bedroom is at the end of the left hallway. Mine is on the right. You don't cross into my space, and I won't cross into yours."

"Agreed. I have no desire to be anywhere near you."

"And rule number three." Silas's gaze lowers to my mouth for a fraction of a second, a sudden, heavy trace of raw hunger flashing through his eyes so quickly I almost think I imagined it. "Don't ever look at me with that patronizing, high-society disdain even when we're behind closed doors, and especially out there. I'm not one of the spineless elites your father surrounds himself with. I don't bow to your money, and I don't scare easily."

"Good," I whisper, forcing my features to remain absolutely unfazed despite the wildfire burning in my chest. "Because I don't bow to monsters."

Silas stares at me for a long, agonizing moment, testing my resolve. I hold his gaze, refusing to flinch, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing the "Ice Queen" crack.

Finally, he pulls back, the sudden loss of his radiating heat making the cool air of the penthouse rush back over my skin. He turns on his heel, walking toward the hallway on the right without another word. The heavy, quiet thud of his steps echoes down the corridor until a door closes firmly in the distance, leaving me entirely alone.

I let out a long, ragged breath I hadn't realized I was holding. My hands are trembling inside my pockets. Again, I love pockets. They hide things.

Slowly, I walk back to the foyer and grab the handles of my suitcases. I drag them down the left hallway, finding the guest suite he has designated as mine. That hulk of a man will never help me, and I won’t ask for his help.

The room was large, minimalist, and cold. I drop my bags by the closet and walk over to the en-suite bathroom. Flicking on the harsh overhead lights, I lean against the marble sink and look at my reflection in the mirror.

The makeup is flawless. The dark eyeliner, the perfectly sculpted cheekbones, the bold lip: they’re all there to make me look thirty, seasoned, and entirely untouchable. It is the face I wear to ensure no man ever dares to think he could manipulate or harass me again. It is the mask that keeps the ghost of my fifteen-year-old self safe from the predators of the world.

But as I look closer, past the cosmetics, I see the wide, frightened eyes of a twenty-five-year-old virgin who has just signed her life away to a man known as The Butcher.

A sharp buzz cuts through the silence. Yeah, I guess it’s time to face the music. I pull my phone from my pocket. It is a text from Alexa.

Alexa: Tell me you're alive.

I stare at the screen, a heavy, numb feeling settling into my chest. I type out a quick response.

Harper: I'm alive.

Setting the phone down, I grab a makeup wipe. One by one, I begin to strip away the layers of my armor, wiping away the bold colors until nothing is left but pale skin, faint freckles, and the raw, vulnerable truth of who I actually am.

Helpless.

Living with Silas Vane is going to be a war. And as I look at my bare face in the mirror, I know that if he ever sees the real me, I will lose entirely.