Page 88 of Where The Devil Kneels

His fingers trace idle patterns along my spine while mine explore the strong line of his jaw, the vulnerable hollow of his throat, the pulse that beats steady and sure beneath my touch. My body feels languid, satisfied, marked by him in ways both visible and invisible.

“Do you like it?” he asks, still breathless. The question is so earnest that I can’t help but laugh. After everything we’ve just shared, he still wants verbal confirmation that his gift pleases me.

“It’s perfect,” I assure him, propping myself up to look at him properly. “Not just beautiful, but meaningful. You’ve created something that honours both our histories while making space for our future.”

Something relaxes in his expression, a tension I hadn’t even realized he was carrying. “I wanted to show you that I understand what you’ve been saying. About balance. About not being defined solely by duty.” His hand finds mine, fingers intertwining with practised ease. “This room is neither purely historical preservation nor modern convenience. It’s both. As we can be both.”

I lean down and kiss him, my heart full at what he’s done for us. This room says everything, the way he kept the old bones but made it ours, how the windows both shield and let light through. It hits me that Silas gets it now, gets us, in a way I couldn’t explain if I tried for days.

Chapter twenty-three

The Watcher's Evolution

Theestateglowsinthe twilight. Lanterns hang from the oaks, casting golden light across the lawn where I once feared what might be hidden inside these walls. Now guests wander the stone paths, sipping champagne and admiring the restored details. Standing on the terrace steps, I feel a strong sense of pride. This place isn’t just a building anymore; it’s become what it was always meant to be—a beautiful sanctuary that looks like a historic home. Somewhere in this sparkling crowd, moving quietly as ever, is the man who made it all possible.

“A successful turnout, wouldn’t you say?” Mayor Halloway appears at my side, his grey beard neatly trimmed for the occasion. It’s the first time he’s visited the estate since Garrow was arrested. I can’t help but notice how quickly people show support once the hard part is over.

“Beyond expectations,” I reply, scanning the crowd again for Silas. “The town seems to be warming up to us.”

“It’s hard to stay suspicious of a place that looks like it belongs in a historical documentary,” he says with a chuckle, raising his champagne toward the front where Rafe’s restoration has brought old architectural details back to life. “Especially with the educational programs you’re starting.”

Before I can answer, Nora Voss’s voice rises above the crowd. She leads visitors to her archive display, her emerald dress shining in the lantern light as she gestures with excitement. I know her presentation by heart—she shows restored documents that prove the estate was a sanctuary during three conflicts, sharing just enough of our story without giving away too much.

“Excuse me,” I say to the mayor, heading toward the main hall where most guests have gathered. My midnight-blue gown, chosen to match the stained-glass window Silas put in our bedroom, brushes softly along the stone path. I picked it on purpose, hoping it would help me feel normal on a night when we open our sanctuary to everyone.

Inside, the house feels alive again. The staircase that used to creak now curves smoothly upward, each spindle carefully restored by Rafe. I see him leading visitors down the west hallway, his rough hands pointing out ceiling details as he explains the history. Even though he keeps pulling at his tight collar, his eyes are bright with a pride only a true craftsman has.

“Ms. Hale,” Dr. Rao calls, intercepting me with professional warmth. “Several physicians from Eastland Hospital are asking about your medical facilities. Would you mind if I showed them the treatment rooms?”

“Of course,” I agree, noting how the grey at her temples seems less pronounced tonight, her typical clinical restraint softened by genuine pride. “The east wing is yours to showcase.”

She nods in thanks and leads her colleagues to the area she now calls her own. Turning those rooms from dusty, forgotten spaces into modern medical facilities that still look historic is exactly the balance we wanted. They’re places of healing that keep the estate’s tradition of protection alive in a new way.

I spot Jonah Peck’s uniform as he moves through the crowd. Most guests just see a local officer, but I notice how alert he is, always watching the doors and ready to react. Even though Garrow’s corruption damaged local law enforcement's reputation, Jonah has become our link to real protection and has earned his place here.

Marta appears next to me, camera in hand. “Is this angle good?” she asks, shifting in a borrowed dress that looks too grown-up for her. She keeps her pink scar visible on purpose. “For the historical society,” she says, giving me a look that says she knows these photos will be part of Silas’s security review by morning.

“Perfect,” I tell her, watching her excitement. “Be sure to capture how the security and historical features work together. That’s what makes this place special.”

“Already on it.” She nods toward the discreetly placed cameras Silas designed to blend seamlessly with original fixtures. “He’s over by the library doors, by the way. Looking like someone’s about to waterboard him with all this small talk.”

I look where she’s pointing and see Silas by the library doors. His charcoal suit looks stiff on him, and his fingers tap nervously on his thigh while Katherine Winters talks about the ceiling. Even from across the room, I can see how hardthis is for him—every polite nod and smile goes against his habit of staying in the background.

He seems to sense me watching and looks up, our eyes meeting across the room. For a moment, his expression softens—relief and understanding pass between us. Then Katherine asks him something else, and I see him put on his polite face again.

As I move between conversations and champagne refills, I keep spotting him across the room. Every twenty minutes or so, he disappears for a break from all the forced smiles. Once, I see him standing in a doorway’s shadow, shoulders against the wood, taking slow, steady breaths. He taps his fingers on his thigh, straightens his tie, and steps back out, pushing himself to be seen after years of hiding.

After spending twenty minutes with the historical board, I notice Silas slipping into the servants’ corridor. His jaw had been getting tighter for a while—a sure sign he needed a break. When he doesn’t come back, I excuse myself from the preservation group and go after him.

“Fifty-seven people are in the main hall, fourteen in the east gallery, twenty-three on the south lawn,” I hear his voice before I see him. He’s on the phone, probably talking to someone on our security team. “Keep an eye on all entry points. I’ll be back out in two minutes.”

I wait, letting him have these moments to regain control and return to what feels familiar—watching over things. When he comes out, he stops when he sees me, a brief look of vulnerability crossing his face before he hides it again.

“Just checking on things,” he says, straightening his tie even though it’s already perfect. “It’s standard for big events like this.”

“I know,” I say, ignoring the slight shake in his hands and the tension in his eyes. I step closer and adjust his tie, mostly just to touch him and give some comfort. “You’re doing great for someone who’s spent years avoiding this kind of thing.”

He exhales slowly, some of the tension leaving his frame at my touch. “It’s… challenging. But necessary.” His eyes meet mine, determination overriding discomfort. “This is what we decided, yes? Visibility as our best defence?”