Page 89 of Where The Devil Kneels

“Yes,” I say, running my hands down his jacket. “And it’s working. Katherine Winters is really excited about the preservation work. Two board members already want to feature the estate in their national publication.”

He nods. “Then it’s worth it.” The lines around his eyes show how much effort it takes. As voices come closer from the main hall, Silas steps back and quickly shifts from partner to estate manager.

As we head back, I watch him walk across the room toward Jonah. He moves smoothly, even though his shoulders are tense. He used to hide in the shadows, but now he stands in the open—a change only I really notice.

Amber light shines in crystal glasses as laughter fills rooms that used to be quiet. Silas gets through every handshake and answers questions carefully, helping us build our future step by step. Our sanctuary is finally recognized, the old walls renewed, and Silas, who once hid, now stands tall even when it’s hard for him.

I find Silas beneath the west staircase, back against the wall, fingers tapping that familiar rhythm against his thigh. Stained glass casts coloured shadows across his face, all sharp angles and tension. His jaw works silently, rehearsing social phrases. He doesn’t startle at my approach; he never does. Some guardian instinct always tells him it’s me before I speak.

“Found your hiding spot,” I say softly, moving beside him. The space isn’t meant for two, forcing our shoulders to touch—a contact I know grounds him more effectively than words.

“Tactical retreat,” he corrects, the ghost of a smile touching his lips. “Temporary repositioning.”

“Of course.” I match his tone, keeping it light while studying the fine lines of strain around his eyes. “Just routine surveillance from a different vantage point.”

His posture relaxes fractionally, shoulders dropping an inch from their defensive hunch as he turns toward me. In the diffused light, his eyes look almost colourless, like water reflecting a storm. “Three separate people asked about my background today. My history. Previous employment.”

I wince, understanding the particular strain such questions would place on someone whose entire existence has been carefully undocumented. “What did you tell them?”

“The cover story. Private security consultant. Family connection to the estate.” His hand finds mine in the shadows, and our fingers intertwine with quiet desperation. “Each lie feels like another barrier between myself and… whoever I’m becoming.”

His words pull at something tender beneath my ribs. We’ve spent months on the tangible parts of his transformation, fabricating employment records, rehearsing his cover story, teaching him to shake hands with just the right pressure.Yet we’ve barely touched on this, how it feels to shed decades of invisibility, to stand exposed in daylight when shadows have been your only home.

“Who you’re becoming is still you,” I tell him, squeezing his hand. “Just… more visible parts of you.”

“That’s what feels strange,” he confesses, voice dropping so low I have to lean closer to hear. “Being seen. Having opinions. Making small talk about restoration techniques and weather patterns when months ago, my entire existence was about remaining unnoticed.” He glances toward the hall where voices and music continue to flow. “Sometimes I look down at myself—this suit, these shoes, standing in plain sight—and I don’t recognize the man I’m pretending to be.”

“You’re not pretending,” I say firmly. “You’re expanding. There’s a difference.”

His free hand lifts to my face, thumb brushing my cheekbone with that precise gentleness that still makes my breath catch. “You make it sound so simple.”

“Not simple. Worth it.” I turn my face into his palm. “Worth every uncomfortable conversation and awkward introduction if it means we get to build something real together. Something that doesn’t require you to live between walls.”

Something shifts in his expression, a softening around the eyes, a relaxation around the mouth that looks almost like surrender. He leans forward, his forehead touching mine in a gesture more intimate than a kiss in this moment. “I would endure a thousand cocktail parties for you,” he whispers against my skin.

“Now that’s true love,” I laugh softly, just as the distinctive sound of Maeve’s heels on marble cuts through our moment of privacy.

Maeve materializes at the end of the hallway, her navy suit absorbing what little light filters through the stained glass. She cuts a severe silhouette against the estate’s weathered stone archway, all right angles and sharp edges where the building curves and crumbles. Her gaze locks onto us instantly, with that uncanny timing she’s always had for finding me exactly when I’d rather not be found.

“There you are,” she says, her tone professional but not unkind. “Katherine Winters is looking for you both. Something about featuring the east wing restoration in her next publication.”

Silas straightens immediately, his guardian mask slipping back into place with practised ease, though his hand remains firmly wrapped around mine. “I’ll find her,” he offers, already calculating the most efficient path through social interaction.

“Actually,” Maeve interjects, “I need a moment with Elara first. Legal matters.” Her eyes flick to Silas, a brief acknowledgement of his presence that still falls short of actual comfort. “If you don’t mind.”

Silas nods once, squeezes my hand in silent communication, and steps out of our hiding place with fluid grace.

“I’ll intercept Katherine,” he says, already recalibrating to his public role. “East gallery in ten minutes?”

After Silas leaves, Maeve’s posture relaxes slightly. She extracts a folder from her portfolio and opens it, revealing official documents, her expression betraying the slightest hint of triumph.

“The federal historical registry designation came through this morning,” she announces, tapping a finger against an official seal. “Combined with the non-profit trust structure and the educational program certifications, the estate now has three separate layers of protection against development.”

“That’s fantastic,” I breathe, scanning the dense legal text that represents months of strategic planning. “What about the challenges to the structural modifications?”

“Dismissed entirely.” A rare smile touches her lips. “Our argument that the hidden passages constitute historically significant architectural features unique to crisis-period construction was accepted unanimously. The preservation board is actually recommending them for special study as examples of ‘innovative safety design responsive to historical circumstances.’”

I laugh, delighted by the ironic truth hiding in plain sight. “So the very features Garrow’s team tried to use against us are now specifically protected?”