Page 80 of Where The Devil Kneels

I take his hand, pressing my lips to his palm. “Well, get used to it. I have a lot more plans that involve you.” I settle back against his chest, my fingers absently tracing the scar tissue from Garrow’s knife. “Including a proper consultation on the security system upgrades. And your input on the garden renovations. Oh, and I thought we might convert that little room off the kitchen into a proper office for estate business.”

With each item on my list, I feel the tension in his body ease, replaced by a different kind of intensity, not the vigilance of the guardian but the growing certainty of the man who has finally found his place.

His arms tighten around me. “I never plan beyond the next security breach,” he admits. “The next threat. The next necessity.”

“Sounds exhausting,” I murmur against his skin.

“It was,” he agrees, fingers trailing up my spine. “Necessary, but exhausting.”

I shift to look at him directly, suddenly needing him to understand something essential. “You know, the guardian role doesn’t have to consume everything you are. You’re allowed to exist beyond your duty.”

“I’m learning that,” he says, and the simple admission carries the weight of decades of solitary purpose being slowly, carefully expanded to include personal desire, individual needs.

My hand moves to the network of scars that mark his back, older injuries from years of moving through tight spaces, navigating dangerous situations, and placing himself between threats and those he protects. My fingers trace each raised line, each puckered reminder of his service.

“These are part of you,” I say softly. “The guardian, the protector, the watcher, that will always be who you are.” I press my lips to the largest scar, feeling him shiver slightly at the contact. “But it’s not all you are. Not anymore.”

He rolls suddenly, pinning me beneath him with a fluid grace that reminds me how much strength he keeps carefully controlled. His eyes, dark and intense in the candlelight, hold mine. “What am I, then, if not just the guardian?”

“You’re Silas,” I say simply. “My partner. This house’s rightful inhabitant. The man who knows every creaking floorboard and hidden passage, yes, but also the man who lines up his books by subject rather than author, who prefers Earl Grey to English Breakfast, who closes his eyes when particularly moved by violin concertos.” I reach up to trace his lower lip with my thumb. “I see you, Silas Merrick. All of you, not just the parts you’ve shown the world until now.”

Something breaks open in his expression, a vulnerability so raw it makes my breath catch. He lowers his forehead to mine, our breath mingling in the smallspace between us. “I’ve spent my life watching others,” he whispers. “I never thought about being seen.”

“Well, get used to that too,” I tell him, wrapping my arms around his shoulders, feeling the strong, steady beat of his heart against mine. “Because I’m not looking away.”

Outside, the rain continues against the windows of our home — not just my inherited estate or his assigned post, but our shared sanctuary. Something new is growing here, a partnership that honours tradition without being limited by it.

Chapter twenty-two

Shadows in Daylight

Thelettershakesalittle in my hands, the fancy cream paper shining in the light like a prize. I suppose it is—a sign that my work matters, printed on letterhead so impressive it makes my stomach flutter. Pearson & Whitmore Historical Preservation wants me, actual me, not just because I’m a Hale or because this old house is famous, to help restore historic buildings up and down the East Coast. Half a year ago, I would have signed right away, barely glancing past the first lines. Now I keep rereading the part about “extended on-site assessments requiring travel,” and those words seem to get heavier each time.

I’ve turned this study into my safe place, somewhere I feel truly myself. Silas fixed up the bookshelves, and now they’re filled with my grandmother’s journals and new books on preservation. Morning sunlight pours through the windows, lighting up my old desk with a warm glow. On the dark wood, the four pages of the letter stand out, promising recognition, new chances, and new problems.

I reach for my long-cold coffee and sip anyway. I’ve stared at this offer for hours, torn between ambition and the new roots I’ve put down here—with the estate, its purpose, and the man who stepped out from these walls to share my life.

The door opens quietly, reminding me how Silas still moves like someone used to staying out of sight. I don’t look up right away, but I sense him—he brings a kind of focus to any room that you can feel even if you can’t see it.

“You’re up early,” he says, his voice mixing concern with respect for my independence. It still surprises me sometimes. He brings over a fresh mug of coffee to swap for my cold one.

“Just reviewing some correspondence.” The casual deflection tastes bitter in my mouth. We don’t lie to each other, not even by omission. Not after everything.

He glances at the letter, his eyes narrowing when he sees the letterhead. I notice his body tense—shoulders back, fingers flexing, jaw tightening. I know him well enough to spot these small signs of worry.

“Pearson and Whitmore,” he reads, voice carefully neutral. “They’re reaching out to you professionally?”

I nod, feeling a bit of excitement even with the tension in the air. “They want me to consult on preservation projects—places like ours, but without our resources or know-how.” I can’t help the pride in my voice. “They said my work here was ‘uniquely sensitive to historical integrity while accommodating modern necessities.’”

Silas sets my new coffee down gently, barely making a sound. 'That’s well-deserved recognition, Elara.' His words are calm and supportive, but he looks away, staring out the window and across the grounds. He grips the desk, tension showing in the way he holds himself, as if he wants to pull back.

“It would mean travelling,” I say, watching him closely. “A week here, two there, never longer, but…” I let my words fade, giving him time to think.

We sit in silence, the only sounds the ticking of the mantle clock and the quiet creaks of the house. Silas doesn’t move at all, perfectly still in a way that comes from years of watching and waiting.

“You should accept,” he finally says, each word measured and even. “Your expertise deserves wider recognition.”

“What about you?” I ask, getting right to the point. “Would you come with me?”