His Holiday Prohibition

Chapter 3

THE INTERROGATION

~MAYA’S POV~

I didn't sleep.

How could I? Every time I closed my eyes, I felt the ghost pressure of Silas’s hand on my thigh. I felt the heat of his body pressing against my back in the dark. I heard his voice, low and rough, whispering that we were alone.

When the generator had finally kicked the lights back on last night, he had stepped away instantly. By the time Chloe stopped screaming about the wifi being down, Silas was already halfway out of the room, looking cool and detached, as if he hadn't just dry-humped his daughter's best friend against a dining chair.

Now, at 6:00 AM, the house was silent. Outside, the blizzard was still raging, a white wall of fury that sealed us inside this glass prison.

My throat was parched. I needed coffee. I needed caffeine to jumpstart my brain so I could figure out how to survive the next three days without having a nervous breakdown.

I crept out of my room, wearing an oversized t-shirt and leggings. I tiptoed past Chloe’s door. She was a heavy sleeper, thank God.

I made it to the landing of the floating staircase and froze.

The gym.

The entire east wall of the ground floor was a state-of-the-art fitness center, encased in soundproof glass. And inside, the beast was awake.

Silas was there.

I should have looked away. I should have kept walking to the kitchen. But my feet glued themselves to the floor.

He wasn't wearing a shirt.

I had seen photos of Silas in magazines….usually in tailored Italian suits that hinted at a powerful build. But the reality was visceral. He was massive. He was doing pull-ups on a high bar, his back to me.

Each time he lifted his body, the muscles in his back moved and twisted like snakes under his skin. His lats spread out in a clear V shape down to a slim waist.

Sweat shined on his tan skin, following the line of his spine and soaking into the waistband of his low gray sweatpants.

He was ruthless. He looked less like a corporate billionaire and more like a cage fighter.

Then, I saw it.

A scar. It was rough and white, stretching from his left shoulder blade down to his ribs. It was an old, harsh injury. It didn’t match the image of a "tech mogul." It looked like a knife cut…a story he would do anything to keep secret.

He dropped from the bar, landing lightly on the balls of his feet. He turned around.

My breath hitched aloud.

His chest was just as impressive….slabs of pectoral muscle dusted with dark hair that trailed down his stomach in a sinful line, disappearing into his pants. He was breathing hard, his chest heaving, his skin flushed with sweat.

He reached for a towel and wiped his face. Then, he stopped.

He looked up. straight through the glass. Straight at me.

He didn't look surprised. He didn't scramble to cover himself. A slow, arrogant smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. He dropped the towel, letting it hang around his neck, and walked toward the glass door.

He pushed it open.

The smell hit me instantly….sweat, testosterone, and raw masculine heat. It wasn't gross; it was intoxicating. It triggered some primal part of my brain that screamed Alpha.

"Enjoying the show, Maya?"

His voice was rougher than usual, breathless from the workout.

My face went up in flames. "I... I was just going to the kitchen. I didn't know you were up."

"Clearly," he drawled. His eyes traveled down my body, taking in my messy hair and the oversized shirt that slipped off one shoulder. "You stare loudly."

"I wasn't staring," I lied, backing away as he stepped out of the gym. "I was looking at the... the snow."

He chuckled, a dark, low sound. He closed the distance between us in two steps. He towered over me, giving out heat like a furnace.

"You're a terrible liar," he murmured. "Go get your coffee. Before I decide you look better than breakfast."

I practically ran to the kitchen.

My hands were shaking so badly I almost dropped the mug. ‘Get a grip, Maya,’ I scolded myself. ‘He’s playing with you. He’s bored and you’re the only toy in the house.’

I fumbled with the fancy espresso machine, pressing buttons at random.

"You're doing it wrong."

I jumped. He was there again. He moved so silently for such a big man.

Silas crowded into my space. The kitchen was massive…an island the size of a landing strip, two ovens, three sinks…yet he somehow made it feel like a closet.

He reached around me to press the correct button on the machine. His chest brushed against my back. His arm boxed me in against the marble counter. I was trapped between the cold stone and his scorching heat.

"Did you sleep?" he asked. His voice vibrated against my shoulder blade.

"Yes," I whispered.

"Liar," he corrected gently. He leaned down, his nose grazing the hair behind my ear. I shivered violently. He inhaled deeply, smelling me. "You tossed and turned all night. I heard you."

"Your room is in the West Wing," I argued weakly. "You couldn't have heard me."

"I hear everything in this house, Maya. Especially you."

He pulled back just enough to let me turn around, but he didn't step away. He planted his hands on the counter on either side of my hips, effectively caging me in.

He looked down at me, his blue eyes dark with something possessive. "Why are you afraid of me?"

"I am not," I said, lifting my chin.

"You are shaking," he pointed out. "Is it fear? Or is it excitement?"

"It's cold," I deflected.

He smirked. "I can fix that."

Bzzzzzt.

The silence was shattered by a vibration in my pocket.

Silas’s eyes snapped down to my hip. The playful smirk vanished instantly, replaced by a cold, hard mask of irritation.

"Who is texting you at six in the morning?"

"It's... nobody," I said, reaching for my phone to silence it.

Silas was faster. His hand shot out, snatching the phone from my grip before I could even unlock it.

"Hey!" I protested, reaching for it. "Give that back”

He held it high above his head, effortlessly out of my reach. He tapped the screen. "Passcode?"

"No! That’s private”

He looked at me, his expression flat. "0-0-0-0. Really, Maya? A child could crack this."

He unlocked it. His eyes scanned the screen. His jaw tightened. A muscle feathered in his cheek.

"Tyler," he read aloud. The name sounded like an insult in his mouth. "He says: 'Morning, beautiful. Miss u. Wish I was snowed in w/ u ;)'"

Silas looked at me with pure disgust. "He uses a winky face? How old is this boy? Twelve?"

"He's twenty-two," I snapped, humiliation burning my cheeks. "He's a guy from my Macroeconomics class. Give it back."

Silas didn't give it back. He started scrolling.

"What else does Tyler have to say?" Silas mused, his voice turning icy. "Ah. He wants to take you to a frat party on New Year's. He thinks you're... 'hot'."

Silas laughed. It was a cruel, quick sound. "He thinks you're hot. How pedestrian. He looks at you and sees a piece of meat to parade around his little friends."

"And what do you see?" I challenged, fueled by a sudden burst of anger. "You're the one cornering me in a kitchen, half-naked."

Silas froze. The air in the room became stuffy.

He lowered the phone slowly. He leaned in until his nose was almost touching mine.

"I see a woman who doesn't know her own worth," he whispered. "I see a girl playing house with boys when she needs a man to break her."

My breath caught.

"Does Tyler know?" Silas asked softly. "Does he know how you look when you're scared? Does he know you hold your breath when a man walks into the room?” He lifted the phone again.

"Does he know you like to be watched, Maya? Or is that our secret?"

"Silas, don't," I pleaded, realizing what he was doing.

His thumb hovered over the screen. "You don't need his attention. It's cheap. And I don't like sharing."

Tap.

"What did you do?" I gasped.

He tossed the phone back to me. I fumbled to catch it. I looked at the screen.

Contact Deleted. Block Caller? Yes.

"You blocked him!" I stared at him in disbelief. "You have no right!"

"I have every right," Silas said calmly, grabbing a bottle of water from the fridge as if he hadn't just committed a massive violation of boundaries. "I'm protecting you from mediocrity."

"You're crazy," I whispered.

He took a long drink of water, watching me over the rim of the bottle. His eyes were dark, unrepentant, and terrifyingly hungry.

"Maybe," he agreed. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "But you're not texting him back. You're here. With me."

He walked past me, his sweaty shoulder brushing mine hard enough to make me stumble. He paused at the doorway, not looking back.

"Make me coffee," he ordered. "Black. Bring it to my study in ten minutes. And Maya?"

I looked at his broad, scarred back.

"Change your clothes. I can see your n*****s through that shirt, and I'm done being polite for the morning."

He walked away, leaving me standing alone in the kitchen, trembling with rage, fear... and a wetness between my legs that I couldn't deny.

"You don't need him anymore," I whispered his words back to the empty room.

And God help me, I knew he was right.