Silas’s POV
I replay last night the way some men replay prayers. Slowly and carefully. With full approximate intention.
It settles into me the moment my eyes open—that lingering, delicious satisfaction curling low in my stomach. Not guilt, never guilt. Guilt is for men who regret their impulses. I don’t regret anything, I only catalogue.
The ceiling above me is unfamiliar in the way that rich houses always are—too high, too white, too clean. Marco’s house has that quiet arrogance to it. Money without warmth. Space without soul. I like it, it suits me.
Beside me, Isabella shifts beneath the sheets, her thigh brushing mine. Warm, soft and present.
She sighs, stretches, then slips out of bed without a word, bare feet padding across the wooden floor toward the bathroom. I watch her go, my
