The night air wraps around me as I step out of the car—cool, sharp, carrying the scent of white roses from the garden. Their fragrance mingles with the damp earth and dew-wet grass.

I straighten my jacket, the fabric pulling across my shoulders.

Secretary Nick steps out from the driver’s seat, the car door closing with a solid, expensive thud. He adjusts his glasses—a small, precise movement, pushing the frame up the bridge of his nose.

My phone buzzes in my pocket. A vibration against my hip, insistent and impatient. I pull it out and glance at the screen.

Sum.

Sum: Ellis, you didn’t tell me what his name is.

Another message follows before I can blink.

Sum: Tell me.

A teasing smirk tugs at the corner of my mouth. My thumbs move across the screen, unhurried.

Ellis: I don’t know.

Sum’s reply comes almost immediately, like he was holding his breath waiting.

Sum: Ellis, you promised you’d help. Didn’t you ask him?

"Mr. Ellis."

I look up. Nick stands by the car door, hands folded in front of him, posture perfect, face unreadable behind those glasses.

"Sir, I’ll send a driver to the club. He’ll bring your car back."

I nod. A small movement. Barely an acknowledgment.

He adjusts his glasses again—that same small gesture, precise, almost mechanical.

"Good night."

He slides back into the driver’s seat. The engine hums. The car pulls away, taillights bleeding red into the darkness before disappearing.

I turn back to my phone. Walk slowly toward the front door. My footsteps are unhurried on the stone path, each one deliberate, measured. My gaze stays on the screen.

I type: I don’t know...

Another message from Sum.

Ellis... don’t test my patience.

My smirk widens. I’ve teased him enough. I type back.

Nick. That’s his name.

A pause. Three dots appear, disappear, appear again.

Wow. Such a good name. Is he an Alpha?

I don’t know.

Before he can send another message, I turn off the screen. Slide the phone into my pocket. The leather of my jacket shifts softly as I move.

I dial the passcode. The door unlocks with a soft click—a sound I’ve heard a thousand times, but tonight it feels different. Heavier. Like something is waiting on the other side.

I step inside.

And stop.

A flicker of shock crosses my face. Just a flicker. Then gone.

Silas stands in front of me.

A soft smile spreads across his lips—slow, warm, unfamiliar. Like he’s been standing here for hours, waiting, and the waiting was worth it.

I look at him.

Did he stand here? Waiting for me?

My gaze runs over him—head to toe, slow, deliberate, cataloging.

Soft white night suit against his pale skin. The fabric drapes loosely over his shoulders, falls in soft folds to his wrists. A spatula in one hand—wooden, flecked with something that smells like garlic and herbs.

His body isn’t trembling anymore. The fever that burned through him last night has retreated.

He looks normal now. Almost.

I look away. Start walking forward. He follows. I can hear his feet on the polished floor—soft, almost silent.

My voice is flat.

"You don’t need to greet me at the door like some kind of devoted wife. Don’t do this again."

The words hang in the air between us. Cold. Dismissive.

He doesn’t respond. He never responds. He just follows.

The scent of dinner drifts through the house—rich, savory, something roasted with herbs, something slow-cooked, something made with patience I don’t possess.

My gaze shifts to the table. Set perfectly. White plates. Polished silverware. Napkins folded into precise triangles. Glasses catching the soft gold light spilling from the polished ceiling.

He did all this.

I take off my jacket. Drape it over the back of the couch. The fabric slides across the leather, settling into place like it belongs there.

Silas walks to the kitchen. His movements are calm, practiced, unhurried. The soft smile still on his lips.

I slide the chair back. The legs scrape softly against the polished marble—a small sound that breaks the silence.

I sit down.

The cushion sinks beneath me. Familiar. Soft.

I rest my forearms on the edge of the table.

Silas pours something into a glass. He walks toward me with the same quiet steadiness and sets it in front of me.

I look down.

Lime water.

A slice of lime floats at the surface, seeds suspended in the pale green liquid. A sprig of mint rests against the rim.

I look back at his face.

"What is this?"

He takes out his notebook and pencil from his pocket. He writes. Rips the page. Hands it to me.

It helps with hangovers.

A smirk spreads across my lips—slow, sharp, curling at the edges like smoke.

"Do you really think I’m as weak as you?" I lean back in the chair. The cushion shifts softly beneath my weight. "I’m completely fine. I could drink an entire bottle of whiskey and still be standing."

Silas blinks calmly. His lashes catch the light—brown, thick, soft. He writes another note. Hands it to me.

Then why are your cheeks red?

My expression cracks. My eyes widen. Just a little. Just enough for him to see.

My cheeks are red?

What the hell?

My hand reaches for my face before I can stop it. My fingers press against my cheekbone. The skin is warm.

My voice comes out cold. Forced. Defensive. "That’s impossible."

Silas smiles softly. Gently. Like he knows something I don’t. He writes another note.

I’m sorry. I was kidding.

I stare at him.

Kidding?

The word lands wrong in my chest—foreign, unexpected, like finding a door where there used to be a wall. My voice drops lower. Dangerous.

"Do you want to die?"

He walks around the table. Sits across from me. The soft smile stays on his lips—unfazed, unbothered, like he’s heard worse threats from better men.

He blinks lightly. His shoulders rise just a little—a small, teasing shrug. The gesture is so unexpected, so unlike him, that I don’t know what to do with it.

Teasing.

He’s teasing me.

I slide the glass away. The lime water sloshes against the rim, droplets sliding down the side.

Annoying.

I pick up the fork. The silver is cold against my fingers. I take a bite.

The meat is perfectly cooked. Juicy. Seasoned just right—rosemary and garlic and something else, something I can’t name, something that makes me want another bite before I’ve finished the first.

I chew slowly. Let the flavors spread across my tongue.

Silas’s eyes stay on me. I can feel them. Heavy. Waiting.

"Why the hell are you staring at me?"

He blinks. Then lowers his gaze to his plate.

I take another bite.

It’s delicious.

The thought comes unbidden, unwanted, but true. The meat melts on my tongue, and for a moment, I forget to be angry. I forget to be cold.

I just... eat.

My gaze shifts to Silas.

He eats slowly—small bites, careful, like he’s savoring each one. His cheeks are pink now. Not red. The feverish flush that stained his cheeks this morning has faded into something softer. Something almost normal.

Is his fever really gone?

I set the fork down. The metal clinks against the plate, a small sound in the quiet room. "How’s your fever?" My voice is quieter now. Not soft. Just... less hard. "Is it better?"

Silas looks at me. Slowly, he nods.

My eyes stay on him.

Is he really okay? Or is he just pretending because he’s afraid of the hospital?

Before I think too hard—

Before I can stop myself—

I lean forward. My hand reaches across the table. My fingers touch his cheek. Softly.

His temperature isn’t burning now. It’s normal. The skin beneath my fingers is warm—alive—but not hot. Not the frightening heat from last night.

Just... warm.

The fever is gone.

Silas’s eyes stay on me. He blinks—surprised, uncertain, hopeful.

For a moment, we just stare at each other. My hand freezes where it is. The silence stretches between us, thick and heavy. Then I realize—

What the hell am I doing?

Sum’s voice echoes in my mind—distant, relentless.

Ellis... Are you in love?

—Bonus Scene 🌸—

The room is silent. The light is dim—almost dark, save for the pale glow of moonlight slipping through the gap in the curtains, falling across the floor in a thin, silver line.

Silas sits on the couch, leaning back calmly. One leg rests over the other, relaxed, unhurried. Ellis’s shirt is spread across his lap—white fabric, soft from wear, the scent of him still clinging to the threads. His fingers trace the fabric gently. Softly. Following the lines of the collar, the curve of the sleeve, the place where the buttons rest in a neat, straight row.

Like he’s memorizing something. Like he’s holding something sacred.

The room door knocks—once, twice—and opens. Nick steps inside, his posture straight, hands folded in front of him. He stops a few feet away and bows his head slightly.

"Boss."

Silas doesn’t look at him. His eyes stay on the fabric. His fingers keep tracing—slow, deliberate, almost absent.

"Nick." His voice is low. Smooth. The voice he never uses in front of Ellis. "Whenever you go in front of Ellis..."

Slowly, he raises his gaze. His eyes meet Nick’s.

"Think about business. Or work. Nothing else."

A pause. The air between them tightens.

A smirk spreads across Silas’s lips—slow, knowing, edged with something dangerous.

"His eyes are very sharp." Another pause.

"He sees through people in seconds."

Nick nods once, sharp and obedient. "Yes, Boss."

Silas lifts the shirt to his face. His eyelids flutter closed as he inhales—deep, slow, like he’s pulling the scent into his lungs, into his blood, into the spaces behind his ribs where no one else is allowed.

His lips move. The words are soft. Almost a whisper. Almost a secret meant only for the darkness.

"My Alpha’s eyes... are really sharp." A breath. "And beautiful."

His fingers curl into the fabric, holding it close.

"So beautiful."