Another voice laughs softly.

"Yeah... you’re right. That kind of brown... I’ve never seen it before." A beat. "They almost look like jewels."

I go still.

My hand freezes beneath the running water.

Brown.

Jewel.

Silas.

The thought arrives without permission. Uninvited. Unwanted. It slides into my mind like a knife between ribs—quiet, sharp, already buried before I feel it.

Why am I thinking about him?

I pull my hands from the water. Shake them once. Twice. Droplets scatter across the mirror, across the polished counter—breaking the stillness I’m trying to hold onto.

I reach for the dispenser. Smooth. Automatic. A sheet slides free. I dry my fingers slowly. Deliberately. As if moving slow enough might outrun the name echoing in my skull.

Silas.

Silas.

Silas.

My mood is already bad—tight, simmering, contained. I don’t want to make it worse by meddling in other people’s business. Other people’s fights. Other people’s problems.

I walk toward the door.

My hand reaches for the handle. The metal is cold beneath my palm—too cold. Like a warning I can’t understand.

I pull.

Open.

Then—

Another voice.

Slower this time. Thoughtful. Almost curious. "I think he can’t speak."

A pause. The kind that stretches—heavy with implication, filled with assumptions drawn from silence.

"How do you know?"

A laugh. Worse. Amused.

"Obviously. He didn’t shout. Didn’t scream. Just... crying. Quiet." A beat. "Probably he can’t speak."

"Or maybe..." Another voice—lower, rough at the edges. "Cutie just likes it."

I stop again.

Not quick. Not panicked.

Just... still.

Like something inside me has already decided to wait. Without thinking—without allowing myself to think—I turn.

Walk back.

"Hey—if you keep resisting, you’ll only hurt yourself." A laugh. Sharp. Brief. "Dude, can I go first?"

I step forward.

Shadows shift along the wall. Three of them. Broad shoulders. Heavy hands. Laughter thick in the air, clinging like smoke.

Then I see him.

Silas.

Pinned.

His back pressed against the cold tile—his body small beneath their shadows. Smaller than he should be. His wrists are trapped above him—held down by hands too rough, too eager, fingers digging into pale skin hard enough to bruise.

He’s trying to resist. I see it in the tremor of his arms, the strain in his shoulders.

But he’s too weak against them. Too small. Too quiet.

His eyes are red. Wet with tears—spilling down pale cheeks, uncontrolled.

What is he doing here?

How did he get here?

One of them turns. Looks at me over his shoulder. His face is flushed—drunk on power, on pheromones, on the helplessness of someone who can’t fight back.

"What the hell are you staring at?" His voice is thick. Dismissive. "Get out."

Silas’s eyes shift.

Find me.

The moment he sees me—something changes in his face. Not relief. Not hope. Something unsteady. Like finding ground in the middle of a collapse.

He pulls against their grip. Desperate—enough to hurt himself. His wrists twist, his body lunges—

A hand shoves him back. His spine hits the wall. A hollow sound. The kind a body makes when it’s been pushed too many times.

"Beauty." The man’s voice drops. Mocking. "Where are you running? We were just getting to know each other."

The first man turns back to me. Steps closer. His pheromones rise—cheap and aggressive, the kind of scent that says I’m dangerous without actually being dangerous.

"Mr. Poking your nose into other people’s business isn’t a good thing."

My voice comes out low. Cold. A blade wrapped in silk.

"Leave him."

They laugh. The sound bounces off tile and glass—echoing, multiplying, filling the room with something ugly.

One of them steps forward. Toward me.

"Don’t try to be a hero." His voice drops—intimate, threatening. "You don’t know who we are." A pause. "Better you leave. Quietly. Now."

He steps closer. His pheromones spike—pushing, pressing, trying to force me back with nothing but scent and assumption.

"Or..." His smile widens. "You want to join?"

A breath leaves me.

Slow. Tired.

"How cheap."

A pause.

"Pathetic."

I don’t like doing this.

But they leave me no choice.

My fists clench at my sides. Knuckles whitening. Veins rising beneath my skin.

Then—

My pheromones rise. Not gradual. Not controlled.

Immediate. Absolute.

Like pressure dropping before a storm. Like something ancient waking up and deciding it doesn’t need permission anymore.

The air changes.

Sharp. Heavy. Unbearable.

Their faces change.

Confusion. Recognition. Then fear.

I step forward.

The man in front of me stumbles back—his face flushing red, his hands flying to his throat, clawing at his collar like he can’t breathe.

His knees buckle.

He drops.

My gaze shifts to the others. Cold. Unhurried.

"Leave him."

The men holding Silas let go immediately—like his skin burned them. Like they’ve been waiting for permission.

One stumbles back, eyes wide. "He’s... he’s an S-Class Alpha—"

The door slams. They’re gone.

Silas coughs. Bends forward—his body curling inward, arms wrapping around himself like he’s trying to hold the pieces together.

My fists loosen. The pressure recedes. The air lightens.

I step forward. Without a word. My hand closes around his wrist.

His skin is cold. Too cold. Like he’s been standing in that bathroom for hours—waiting for someone who wasn’t coming.

I turn.

He follows.

We step out of the restroom.

My pace is quick—too quick—dragging him through the hallway like a kite caught in a wind it didn’t ask for.

What the hell is he doing here?

Why is he always—

The thought cuts off.

The music from the VIP rooms is distant now. Muffled. Like thunder heard through walls.

Olivia stands near the entrance. Her silhouette sharp against the neon. She sees me and walks over—heels clicking, dress catching the light.

"Ellis..."

I don’t look at her.

"Where were you? I was waiting for you." Her voice falters as her eyes shift—to Silas, to his wrist, to my hand wrapped around it.

She goes quiet.

I don’t stop.

"Ellis—where are you going—"

I keep walking.

The night air hits my face. Cold. Sharp. The city glows around us—distant and indifferent.

I release Silas’s wrist. Unlock the car. The door opens with a click that sounds louder than it should.

"Sit."

His tears are still falling. Silent. Slow. His steps are unsteady—like his body forgot how to move straight.

He opens the door. Slides into the passenger seat. His hands clench in his lap, fingers twisting the fabric of his trousers. Trembling. Shaking. His breath is shallow—fast, uneven, like he’s still running from something that’s already gone.

I get in.

Start the engine. It hums beneath me—low, steady, controlled. My hands close around the steering wheel. Tight. Tighter.

My knuckles pale under the dashboard lights. My jaw sets. My expression stays cold. Angry.

No matter how much I try to avoid him— he shows up. Everywhere.

And somehow... I end up with him.