Chapter 154: What If Something Happened To You?

The restroom is silent. Not the peaceful kind of silence—the kind that presses against your ears, thick and heavy. The only sound is the water running from the faucet, a steady, indifferent stream that fills the space like a held breath refusing to release. It splashes against the porcelain, swirls down the drain, and carries with it the remnants of everything I just forced out of myself.

My hands grip the edge of the sink. My knuckles are white, bloodless, pressed hard against the cold marble. Another violent shudder tears through me, leaving me gasping for air. The whiskey burns on its way up—hot, bitter, and laced with regret. I can still taste it at the back of my throat, sharp and acrid, mixing with the sourness of bile.

I stand there for a long moment, swaying, my breath coming in ragged, uneven gasps. My face is flushed, feverish, sweat beading along my temples and sliding down the sides of my neck. When I finally force myself to look into the mirror, I barely recognize the person staring back.

My eyes are red-rimmed, swollen from crying—though I don’t remember when I started. Tears have carved silent tracks down my cheeks, and fresh ones still cling to my lashes, trembling with every blink. My gaze is hollow, bruised by a grief I can’t name, one that settles heavy and cold in the center of my chest.

I can barely stand. The pain has settled deep in my belly—a dull, twisting ache that sharpens with every breath. It coils through my insides like a serpent, tightening with each passing moment. I clutch the fabric of my shirt, fingers curling into it, desperate to anchor myself before I fall apart.

My vision blurs again.

Fresh tears spill over, hot and unstoppable.

The restroom door opens.

I don’t hear the handle turn. I don’t hear the footsteps. But I feel the shift in the air, the sudden presence that fills the space like a shadow given weight. I look up, blinking through the haze, and for one brief, fragile moment, my vision clears.

Brown eyes.

Silas.

He walks toward me. His steps are unhurried, but there is purpose in them.

I step back.

He steps closer.

I step back again—each movement driven by instinct, by the desperate need to put distance between us, even as my body screams in protest, even as the pain in my belly coils tighter with every step.

My feet betray me. I lose my balance.

I start to fall.

He catches me.

His arms are around me before I hit the ground, steady and sure, pulling me against him with surprising gentleness. I try to push him away, my palms pressing against his chest, but my arms tremble with weakness, and he doesn’t budge.

"Stay away from me."

The words leave my lips in a whisper, fragile and broken, barely audible over the steady rush of water from the faucet.

He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t let go.

Instead, he slides one arm beneath my knees and lifts me into his arms effortlessly, as though I weigh nothing at all.

I want to fight. I want to scream. I want to claw my way out of his grip and run until I can’t feel anything anymore.

But I’m too weak.

The pain in my belly has stolen every ounce of strength I had left. I can’t push him away—no matter how hard I try.

Then his scent reaches me.

His pheromones rise from his skin like a tide, surrounding me, wrapping around me like a warm blanket pulled tight.

Soft. Inescapable. They seep into my lungs, settle deep in my bones, and I hate it.

I hate that they make me feel safe.

I hate that my body responds to them. That the tension slowly leaves my muscles. That my head falls against his neck, against his shoulder, without my permission.

My eyes drift closed.

The bass of the club, the distorted music, the chatter of strangers—all of it fades. Becomes distant. Muffled. Like sound traveling through water.

Only his heartbeat remains, steady and slow beneath my ear, a quiet rhythm against the chaos inside me.

My breathing steadies. My body begins to feel weightless, as though I’m floating in still water, suspended in something warm and endless.

For a moment—

Just a moment—

I stop struggling.

I let myself drown.

He steps out of the club.

The night air strikes my tear-streaked face like a slap—cold, sharp, unforgiving. It cuts through the haze, pulling me back to the surface. The pain in my belly is still there, but it has quieted, settling into a dull, persistent throb.

Restless. Waiting.

He lowers me onto the back seat of the car with slow, deliberate care, as though I’m made of glass—something that might shatter if handled too roughly. The leather is cool against my heated skin. The door closes with a soft thud, sealing me inside.

My eyes slowly open. The fog begins to lift. My senses return, piece by piece.

Silas slides into the seat beside me. The car shifts beneath his weight.

His hand finds mine.

I jerk away, my body reacting before my mind can catch up. I reach for the door handle, desperate to leave, to escape, to put distance between us.

He catches my hand. His fingers close around my wrist, firm and unyielding.

The car starts moving.

"Let go of my hand."

He doesn’t.

I slap his hand away and snap at the driver, my voice sharp and brittle.

"Stop the car."

The driver glances at me in the rearview mirror, uncertainty flickering across his face before his gaze shifts to Silas. A moment later, he looks back at the road and keeps driving—calm, unbothered, as though my words are nothing more than wind.

Silas takes both my wrists in one hand. His grip is firm, unyielding. I try to pull free, but my movements are weak, trembling—nothing more than a futile struggle against someone far stronger than me.

He shifts closer.

I try to move away.

He shifts closer still.

His scent suddenly thickens, filling the car, pressing in from every side like a living thing. My skin prickles. My breath catches in my throat.

I don’t know why. I don’t understand what it is about him that affects me like this.

I try again to free my hands.

"Stay away from me."

He doesn’t speak.

His free hand rises to my face. His fingers brush gently across my skin, wiping away the tears clinging to my cheeks, my lashes, the corners of my eyes.

His touch is light. Almost reverent.

His voice is low, barely above a whisper.

"You shouldn’t have drunk alcohol."

I stare at him.

Shouldn’t have drunk alcohol.

Then I remember. Something I didn’t want to remember.

Seven weeks pregnant.

So that’s why my stomach started hurting the moment I drank. That’s why the pain came.

His hand remains on my face, his thumb slowly brushing across my cheek. His gaze traces the line of my lips, soft and searching, as though he’s trying to memorize every detail.

"What if—"

I cut him off, my voice sharp and bitter, like a blade unsheathed.

"What? Worried about your child?"

His gaze lingers on my lips. He shakes his head slowly, a single, deliberate movement.

"No."

His eyes lift to meet mine. Brown. Warm. Deep. Yet something burns within them, like gold catching fire.

"What if something happened to you?"