Page 41 of The Dark Stranger
They were history.
The canvases she painted were selling fast—Truth. Safety. Freedom.
Words people like to say but rarely live by.
This fundraiser wasn’t just charity. It was a lifeline for unhoused victims of domestic violence. I was there as a donor, of course. My name carried weight whether I wanted it to or not. People knew who Silas Winters was.
That night, I didn’t care.
All my attention was on her.
She wore a royal blue dress that hugged her curves like it had been designed with her body in mind. The slit climbed up her thigh just enough to be distracting without trying to be. Black heels. Minimal jewelry. None of it mattered.
Her tattoos were her jewelry.
Long, naturally curly hair fell down her back, dark and untamed. When she laughed—soft, genuine—something sharp tightened in my chest. Not pain. Recognition.
I watched her explain one of the canvases to a buyer. A lioness formed entirely of black and blood-red lilies.
“My favorite flower,” she said, smiling. “Lilies and lionesses belong together.”
That was the moment it hit me.
The pressure.
The pull.
The unmistakable spark of sexual awareness threading through something deeper.
I didn’t want her body first.
I wanted her.
I moved before I could talk myself out of it.
As I approached, she smiled again—this time at me—and I swear the room dimmed around her. When I stopped in front of her, close enough to smell coconut and something softer underneath, I introduced myself.
“Silas Winters.”
No titles. No mirrors.
Her hand slid into mine when she replied,
“Hello, Silas. Nice to meet you. I’m Rebecca Valentine.”
The second our palms touched, heat surged. Not rushed. Not reckless. Controlled—but powerful enough to make my jaw tighten.
Steam rose between us. I felt it. I knew she did too.
There was something there. I couldn’t name it yet.
But I knew one thing with terrifyingcertainty—
She wasn’t leaving my life.
From that night forward, my thoughts stopped being clean.
I told myself it was about the art. About her talent. About the meaning behind the ink.
