Chapter 8: The Breaking Point
The tension Julian had left behind didn't dissipate; it curdled, thickening the air until the house felt like a pressure cooker. Silas didn't speak for hours after Julian left. He went out to the barn to chop wood he didn't need, and I watched him through the window, my mind replaying the way Julian had looked at me—like I was a prize to be stolen rather than a person.
When night fell, the storm returned with a vengeance, rattling the windowpanes. Silas came back inside, smelling of cold air and cedar, his face a mask of controlled fury.
He didn't go to his chair. He went to the kitchen and poured two fingers of bourbon, his hand trembling just enough for me to see it.
"I'm not scared of him, Silas," I said, stepping into the kitchen. I was still wearing one of his oversized flannel shirts, the hem hitting mid-thigh.
Silas turned, his eyes dark and heavy. "You should be. He doesn't see people, Alina. He sees leverage. And today, he saw how I looked at you. He knows you're mine to protect, which makes you the perfect blade to stick in my ribs."
The room went silent. Mine to protect. The words hung between us, charged and electric.
"Is that all I am?" I asked, stepping closer. The bravado was gone, replaced by a reckless, whiskey-warmed need to be seen. "Leverage? A project? A 'broken bird' you have to keep in a cage?"
Silas set the glass down with a heavy thud. He was across the kitchen in three strides, his massive frame looming over me, pinning me against the edge of the marble island. "You know damn well that's not it," he growled, his voice a low, dangerous vibration.
"Then show me," I challenged, my breath hitching as I looked up at him. "Stop being a gentleman, Silas. Just for one night. Stop being the hero and be the man who's been staring at me since the diner."
The last thread of Silas's legendary restraint snapped.
He grabbed the back of my neck, his large hand tangling in my hair, and crashed his mouth against mine. It wasn't a gentle kiss; it was a collision. It tasted of bourbon and desperation. I let out a low moan, my hands flying to his chest, bunching the fabric of his work shirt as I pulled him closer.
He hoisted me up onto the counter, my legs instinctually wrapping around his waist. His hands were everywhere—mapping my skin, sliding up the thighs of the flannel shirt, his palms rough and hot against my skin.
"You've been driving me insane," he muttered against my throat, his teeth grazing my skin. "Every snappy word, every look... I've wanted to do this since the first day I saw you."
He ripped the buttons of the flannel open, his eyes devouring me in the dim light. When he cupped my breasts, his thumbs brushing over my peaking nipples, I arched my back, my head falling back. The contrast between his weathered, scarred hands and my pale skin was staggering.
Silas didn't waste time. He fumbled with his belt, his breathing ragged. When he stripped out of his jeans, I saw the true scale of him—powerful, thick, and fully aroused. He was a man built of earth and muscle, and I wanted every bit of him.
He positioned himself between my thighs, his eyes locking onto mine with a possessive intensity. "Tell me to stop, Alina. Tell me now, or I'm never letting you go."
"Don't you dare stop," I breathed.
He lunged forward, sliding into me in one deep, agonizingly perfect thrust. I gasped, my fingernails digging into his shoulders as my body stretched to accommodate him. He was huge, filling me completely, a blunt force of nature that shattered the last of my defenses.
He started to move—slow, heavy strokes that hit a spot deep inside me I didn't know existed. I wrapped my arms around his neck, burying my face in the crook of his shoulder, sobbing his name into his skin. Every time he bottomed out, the marble of the counter felt cold against my back while his body was a furnace against mine.
"Look at me," he commanded.
I opened my eyes, blurred with tears of pleasure. He was watching me, his jaw set, sweat dripping from his brow. He looked wrecked. He looked like a man who had finally found the one thing he couldn't control.
He increased the pace, his thrusts becoming faster, more primal. The friction was a white-hot blur, building behind my navel until I couldn't breathe. I felt the first ripples of my climax—a violent, pulsing release that made me cry out, my legs tightening around him like a vice.
Silas let out a guttural, animalistic sound, his body tensing as he followed me over the edge. He buried his face in my neck, his entire frame shuddering as he emptied himself into me, holding me so tight I thought he might actually break me.
For a long time, the only sound was our synchronized, heavy breathing and the crackle of the fire in the next room. Silas didn't pull away. He kept his forehead pressed against mine, his hands still anchored on my hips.
"I'm fucked," he whispered, a ghost of a laugh in his voice. "I am absolutely, completely fucked."
I reached up, tracing the line of his jaw. The "boredom" of the diner felt like a lifetime ago. I wasn't the girl with the tray anymore, and he wasn't the tycoon in the suit. We were just two people who had spent too long in the cold, finally finding enough heat to burn the world down.
"Good," I whispered back, pulling him down for another kiss. "Because I'm not going anywhere."
But as I held him, the memory of Julian's cold, smiling face flickered in my mind. The thaw had happened, but the winter was far from over.
Chapter 8: The Breaking Point
The tension Julian had left behind didn't dissipate; it curdled, thickening the air until the house felt like a pressure cooker. Silas didn't speak for hours after Julian left. He went out to the barn to chop wood he didn't need, and I watched him through the window, my mind replaying the way Julian had looked at me—like I was a prize to be stolen rather than a person.
When night fell, the storm returned with a vengeance, rattling the windowpanes. Silas came back inside, smelling of cold air and cedar, his face a mask of controlled fury.
He didn't go to his chair. He went to the kitchen and poured two fingers of bourbon, his hand trembling just enough for me to see it.
"I'm not scared of him, Silas," I said, stepping into the kitchen. I was still wearing one of his oversized flannel shirts, the hem hitting mid-thigh.
Silas turned, his eyes dark and heavy. "You should be. He doesn't see people, Alina. He sees leverage. And today, he saw how I looked at you. He knows you're mine to protect, which makes you the perfect blade to stick in my ribs."
The room went silent. Mine to protect. The words hung between us, charged and electric.
"Is that all I am?" I asked, stepping closer. The bravado was gone, replaced by a reckless, whiskey-warmed need to be seen. "Leverage? A project? A 'broken bird' you have to keep in a cage?"
Silas set the glass down with a heavy thud. He was across the kitchen in three strides, his massive frame looming over me, pinning me against the edge of the marble island. "You know damn well that's not it," he growled, his voice a low, dangerous vibration.
"Then show me," I challenged, my breath hitching as I looked up at him. "Stop being a gentleman, Silas. Just for one night. Stop being the hero and be the man who's been staring at me since the diner."
The last thread of Silas's legendary restraint snapped.
He grabbed the back of my neck, his large hand tangling in my hair, and crashed his mouth against mine. It wasn't a gentle kiss; it was a collision. It tasted of bourbon and desperation. I let out a low moan, my hands flying to his chest, bunching the fabric of his work shirt as I pulled him closer.
He hoisted me up onto the counter, my legs instinctually wrapping around his waist. His hands were everywhere—mapping my skin, sliding up the thighs of the flannel shirt, his palms rough and hot against my skin.
"You've been driving me insane," he muttered against my throat, his teeth grazing my skin. "Every snappy word, every look... I've wanted to do this since the first day I saw you."
He ripped the buttons of the flannel open, his eyes devouring me in the dim light. When he cupped my breasts, his thumbs brushing over my peaking nipples, I arched my back, my head falling back. The contrast between his weathered, scarred hands and my pale skin was staggering.
Silas didn't waste time. He fumbled with his belt, his breathing ragged. When he stripped out of his jeans, I saw the true scale of him—powerful, thick, and fully aroused. He was a man built of earth and muscle, and I wanted every bit of him.
He positioned himself between my thighs, his eyes locking onto mine with a possessive intensity. "Tell me to stop, Alina. Tell me now, or I'm never letting you go."
"Don't you dare stop," I breathed.
He lunged forward, sliding into me in one deep, agonizingly perfect thrust. I gasped, my fingernails digging into his shoulders as my body stretched to accommodate him. He was huge, filling me completely, a blunt force of nature that shattered the last of my defenses.
He started to move—slow, heavy strokes that hit a spot deep inside me I didn't know existed. I wrapped my arms around his neck, burying my face in the crook of his shoulder, sobbing his name into his skin. Every time he bottomed out, the marble of the counter felt cold against my back while his body was a furnace against mine.
"Look at me," he commanded.
I opened my eyes, blurred with tears of pleasure. He was watching me, his jaw set, sweat dripping from his brow. He looked wrecked. He looked like a man who had finally found the one thing he couldn't control.
He increased the pace, his thrusts becoming faster, more primal. The friction was a white-hot blur, building behind my navel until I couldn't breathe. I felt the first ripples of my climax—a violent, pulsing release that made me cry out, my legs tightening around him like a vice.
Silas let out a guttural, animalistic sound, his body tensing as he followed me over the edge. He buried his face in my neck, his entire frame shuddering as he emptied himself into me, holding me so tight I thought he might actually break me.
For a long time, the only sound was our synchronized, heavy breathing and the crackle of the fire in the next room. Silas didn't pull away. He kept his forehead pressed against mine, his hands still anchored on my hips.
"I'm fucked," he whispered, a ghost of a laugh in his voice. "I am absolutely, completely fucked."