Silva

Chapter Twenty-Seven

• Irisa •

—

"I want to be alone for a few days."

Silva silently observes the twitch on my shoulder as his gray eyes dull cautiously. His big hand strokes soothing circles on the back of my hand, inciting memories of his cruelty on a man who did nothing to Silva.

When Silva came to get me from the other room, his white button-up was stained with his sins and ruthlessness.

He could've asked me, talked to me if he wanted to know. He didn't have to go that far, but I don't have the right to say that.

I used that man to get rid of nuisances for me without dirtying my hands. I never killed anyone before, and I don't plan to either.

"Do you like it?" he asks, whispering against my cheek as he smiles.

I shy away from his hot breath fanning over my bare shoulder as the wide-collared shirt tips to the side. He clinches my waist to stop me from fidgeting between his thighs, one bending under my ass and the other propping up to lock me in his embrace.

"I had it renovated for you," he purrs vilely.

The darkened room flashes with beginning scenes of a movie. I don't remember the name or care about it, I just want to lay in bed.

Between dealing with his mother and seeing up-close on the practiced ease in his interrogation, I desperately need a moment to myself.

From time to time, I feel that I bit more than I could chew.

However, I know I won't achieve my goal without giving up parts of myself. I'll probably never get them back, but it's a decision I'm making for myself.

Looking back at the reason for getting me here, I want to laugh. In disbelief or foolishness? I don't know.

I never felt my motivation was idiotic and dramatic for the objective—the determination to start this long game.

Silva is making me think twice.

Maybe—

"Talk," he demands, crushing my smaller body to his big, muscled frame.

On impulse, my voice shatters dolefully. "Was thinking about what would happen if I didn't meet you."

He continues to stroke my fingers, massaging them gently and pressing his lips harder to the side of my face. A growling, raucous purr rumbles from his chest, sending chills to my spine as I sink deeper into his arms.

"And?" he questions with a plain hum.

Whatever the answer is, he's not going to like it. Would it make him angry if I don't answer? Does my silence constitute a lie?

I promised him that I wouldn't.

"Scared," I manage to whisper, "I'm scared."

The caressing gesture stops bringing me comfort; it's a restrictive hold now. His grip isn't tight, but it's firm and menacing. Not threatening with pain, but rather the ambiguity behind the strength in which he also displays so tenderly.

He's protective, almost smothering at times. It balances on the line of obsessiveness where he sees me as his possession, something he will do whatever it takes to keep.

"Scared I'll hurt you?" he intones dismissively.

"Yeah," I mutter, "And I'm scared this could be a dream."

This is embarrassing. What exactly am I saying? My thoughts aren't any better because they absolutely don't make sense. I'm grasping straws.

Can I just delete those thoughts?