Chapter 8 - Blood on White SheetsWren did not remember leaving the hotel.
She remembered the elevator.
She remembered Lena saying a car was waiting.
She remembered someone trying to explain that Silas was conscious, that the bullet had passed through, that the doctor was already at the private medical facility.
She remembered none of the drive.
Fear erased time.
One moment she was standing on Forty-Seven.
The next, she was inside a discreet private clinic on the Upper East Side, staring through a glass door while a doctor cut Silas’s shirt away from his shoulder.
Blood stained the white sheet beneath him.
Wren stopped breathing.
Memories were strange.
Sometimes the mind stored events like photographs.
Other times it stored sensations.
The sight of blood on white fabric sent her backward.
Bathroom tile.
Garrett’s fist.
Her lip.
A towel held beneath her nose.
Don’t be dramatic.
She stepped away.
The hallway tilted.
A nurse reached toward her.
Wren flinched.
The nurse stopped immediately.
“Sorry.”
“I’m fine.”
Her voice sounded far away.
Marcus appeared.
He had blood on his collar.
Not his.
“Wren.”
“What happened?”
“Warehouse was a trap.”
“Obviously.”
Marcus accepted the anger.
“Garrett was tied to a chair. One shooter on the mezzanine. Another behind a false wall.”
“Silas?”
“Took the first shot here.”
Marcus touched his upper chest near the shoulder.
“Through and through. No artery.”
“And the second?”
“Vest.”
Wren closed her eyes.
“Why didn’t you tell me that on the phone?”
“I told you he was alive.”
“You said he’d been shot.”
“He had.”
“You could have mentioned the bulletproof vest.”
Marcus seemed genuinely confused.
“I didn’t realize that distinction would be important.”
She stared at him.
“You people are insane.”
“Occupational hazard.”
“Silas said exactly that.”
Marcus almost smiled.
Through the glass, the doctor finished closing the wound.
Silas looked toward the hallway.
He saw Wren.
Everything in his face changed.
The doctor said something.
Silas ignored him.
He moved to sit up.
The doctor shoved him back down.
Wren entered.
“What part of being shot makes you think moving is a good idea?”
Silas looked at her.
“You came.”
The words were so simple.
So naked.
Wren stopped beside the bed.
“Of course I came.”
“You didn’t have to.”
“I know.”
Something passed between them.
The doctor glanced at Marcus.
Marcus looked toward the ceiling.
The doctor removed his gloves.
“He needs rest.”
Silas said, “I need—”
“You need to shut up.”
The doctor pointed at him.
“You have lost enough blood to make your judgment worse than usual, which I had previously assumed impossible.”
Wren liked him immediately.
Silas frowned.
“Dr. Patel.”
“Mr. Wentworth.”
They stared at each other.
Dr. Patel left.
Marcus followed.
The door closed.
Silas looked at Wren.
“How much did they tell you?”
“Enough.”
“Garrett?”
“Alive.”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“Secure location.”
“You almost died for him.”
“No.”
“For information.”
“Yes.”
“That is not better.”
Silas shifted.
Pain crossed his face.
Wren instinctively reached for him.
Her hand touched his forearm.
He stilled.
She almost withdrew.
Then chose not to.
“You scared me.”
Silas looked at their hands.
“I’m sorry.”
“You’re always sorry after doing something insane.”
“That seems unfair.”
“It’s accurate.”
Silence.
Wren sat beside the bed.
“What happened?”
Silas stared at the ceiling.
“We entered through the west loading door. Garrett was exactly where the caller said. Too exactly.”
“You knew it was a trap.”
“Yes.”
“And went anyway.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because if I sent other people, Alistair would learn I was afraid.”
Wren stared at him.
“That may be the stupidest sentence you’ve ever said.”
Silas looked offended.
“I’ve said worse.”
“Not to me.”
He almost smiled.
Then his face became serious.
“It wasn’t only pride.”
“What else?”
“Alistair wanted me there.”
“Exactly.”
“So I needed to know why.”
“You could have died.”
“Yes.”
“You say that like it’s an acceptable cost.”
Silas did not answer.
Wren understood.
“It is.”
A long silence.
“Silas.”
He looked at her.
“You said helping me made you care whether you came home.”
“Yes.”
“Then act like it.”
Something in his eyes shifted.
Wren continued.
“You don’t get to tell me I’m worth protecting while treating your own life like spare change.”
His jaw tightened.
“My life has always had a price.”
“That’s not what I said.”
“It’s how my world works.”
“Then change the world.”
He almost laughed.
“You make that sound easy.”
“Leaving Garrett wasn’t easy.”
Silas became quiet.
“But I did it.”
“Yes.”
“You told me the hardest part was giving yourself permission to want something different.”
He remembered.
She saw it.
“Maybe you should take your own advice.”
Silas looked away.
No argument.
No clever answer.
Just silence.
Wren softened.
“What happened after you were shot?”
“We cleared the warehouse.”
“Alistair?”
“Not there.”
“Evelyn?”
“No.”
“Garrett?”
“Terrified.”
“Good.”
Silas looked at her.
Wren shrugged.
“He helped strangers study my trauma. I’m still healing, not sainted.”
A small smile appeared.
“Fair.”
“What did you find?”
Silas hesitated.
“Silas.”
“A photograph.”
“Of what?”
He reached toward the table beside the bed.
His phone rested there.
He opened an image.
It showed the wall behind Garrett’s chair.
Something had been painted across the concrete.
A date.
06.17.2008.
Wren frowned.
“What happened then?”
Silas’s expression darkened.
“My mother died.”
She looked at him.
He rarely spoke about family.
“Accident?”
“That’s what I believed.”
“What happened?”
“Car crash.”
His voice flattened.
“She was driving from our house in Connecticut to Manhattan. Car crossed the divider. She died at the scene.”
“How old were you?”
“Twenty-one.”
Wren looked at the date again.
“And Alistair painted it on a wall.”
“Yes.”
“You think he killed her?”
“I don’t know.”
“Does your father have anything to do with it?”
Silas closed his eyes.
“That is what Alistair wants me to ask.”
Wren understood.
“He’s not only trying to destroy your empire.”
“No.”
“He’s trying to destroy what you believe about your father.”
“Yes.”
“Can he?”
Silas looked at her.
“I don’t know.”
The vulnerability in those words was startling.
Wren sat back.
“What was your mother like?”
Silas stared at the ceiling.
For a long time, she thought he would not answer.
Then:
“She hated elevators.”
Wren blinked.
“What?”
“She would walk ten flights rather than ride one if she could.”
A tiny smile touched his face.
“She said elevators were metal boxes designed by people who overestimated humanity’s relationship with cables.”
Wren laughed softly.
Silas continued.
“She played piano badly. Very badly. She knew three songs and insisted on playing them every Christmas.”
“Which songs?”
“I refuse to tell you.”
“Embarrassing?”
“Deeply.”
“She sounds nice.”
“She was.”
Past tense filled the room.
Silas looked toward the window.
“She wanted me out.”
“Out of the family business?”
“Yes.”
“Did your father?”
“No.”
There it was.
Conflict.
“Your mother and father fought about you.”
“Constantly.”
“Maybe Alistair knows something.”
“Yes.”
“Then find out.”
Silas looked at her.
“Truth can be weaponized.”
“So can ignorance.”
He studied her.
“You’ve changed.”
“You keep saying that.”
“I keep discovering new ways it’s true.”
Wren looked down.
“I had help.”
“I did very little.”
“That’s not true.”
“It is.”
“You gave me a door.”
“You walked through it.”
“Maybe.”
She touched the scar on his arm from the break-in at Astrid’s.
“Maybe sometimes people need someone to show them where the door is.”
Silas looked at her hand.
Neither moved.
The room became very quiet.
Wren became aware of how close she was sitting.
How his skin felt beneath her fingers.
How his eyes had shifted from her face to her mouth.
Her pulse changed.
She withdrew her hand.
Not because she did not want him.
That was the problem.
She did.
And wanting someone still frightened her.
Silas noticed.
He did not move closer.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
“For what?”
“For not making that difficult.”
His expression softened.
“I would never.”
“I know.”
That knowledge surprised her.
She actually did know.
Hours later, Silas was discharged against medical advice.
Dr. Patel threatened to sedate him.
Silas ignored the threat.
Back at the hotel, Wren found Garrett in an interrogation room on the twenty-third floor.
He sat behind reinforced glass.
For a moment, she could not enter.
The man looked older.
Thinner.
His expensive clothes were gone.
His hair had grown out unevenly.
A bruise darkened one cheek.
But he was Garrett.
Her body knew.
Her hand tightened around the door handle.
Silas stood behind her.
“You don’t have to.”
“I know.”
“Want me inside?”
Wren considered.
“No.”
Silas nodded.
“I’ll be outside.”
He did not say be careful.
He did not say don’t let him manipulate you.
He trusted her.
That was new.
Wren entered.
Garrett looked up.
Shock crossed his face.
Then something uglier.
“You look good.”
Wren sat opposite him.
“So do you.”
He laughed.
“Still terrible at lying.”
“I learned from someone better.”
His face hardened.
“Wentworth.”
“His name is Silas.”
Garrett stared.
Wren noticed what he was trying to do.
Establish ownership.
Make her defend one man against another.
She refused.
“Why did Alistair want to know about me?”
Garrett leaned back.
“No hello?”
“No.”
“No asking whether I’m okay?”
“No.”
“You really did become cold.”
“No.”
Wren’s voice remained calm.
“I learned that empathy doesn’t require access.”
Garrett frowned.
“What does that mean?”
“It means I can hope you someday become better without allowing you anywhere near my life.”
He looked away.
Wren felt something inside her loosen.
“Alistair.”
Garrett rubbed his wrists.
“I didn’t know his real name.”
“What did he want?”
“To hurt Wentworth.”
“Why use me?”
Garrett’s mouth twisted.
“Because you matter to him.”
The words landed differently than she expected.
“How do you know?”
“Everyone knows.”
“That isn’t an answer.”
Garrett looked at her.
“When Evelyn showed me surveillance, it wasn’t only you.”
He paused.
“It was him watching you.”
Wren’s stomach tightened.
“What surveillance?”
“Hotel footage.”
“What footage?”
“Old footage. Before you left.”
Silas standing across the lobby.
Silas near service stairwells.
Silas watching from a distance.
Garrett smiled bitterly.
“He looked at you like you were the only thing in the room.”
Wren did not react.
“What else?”
“They said you were his weakness.”
“Why would you help them?”
Garrett’s face changed.
“Because I wanted him to lose something.”
There it was.
The truth.
Wren nodded.
“Thank you.”
He blinked.
“For what?”
“For finally admitting it.”
She stood.
“Wren.”
She reached the door.
“I did love you.”
Wren stopped.
For years, those words would have pulled her back.
Now they felt small.
She turned.
“No.”
Garrett’s face twisted.
“You don’t get to rewrite our marriage because some criminal made you feel special.”
Wren looked at him.
“Silas didn’t teach me you never loved me.”
She placed her hand on the door.
“You did.”
Then she walked out.
Silas was waiting.
He did not ask what happened.
Wren leaned against the wall.
Her whole body trembled.
Silas remained several feet away.
“Can I touch you?”
Wren closed her eyes.
“Yes.”
He stepped forward.
Slowly.
His arms wrapped around her.
Not tightly.
Not possessively.
He held her as though she were something alive rather than something owned.
Wren pressed her face against his chest.
His heartbeat was steady beneath her ear.
For several seconds, she did nothing.
Then she gripped the back of his shirt.
And cried.
Not because Garrett had hurt her.
Not because she missed him.
Because she did not.
Because the man in that room no longer had the power to define her.
Silas did not tell her to stop.
He did not tell her she was safe.
He simply stayed.
Eventually, Wren whispered, “Your shoulder.”
“I’ve had worse.”
“You’re impossible.”
“Yes.”
She laughed through the tears.
Silas looked down at her.
Their faces were close.
Too close.
Wren felt it again.
That pull.
This time she did not step away.
Neither did he.
“Silas.”
“Yes?”
“I don’t know how to do this.”
His eyes searched hers.
“Do what?”
“This.”
She gestured between them.
“I don’t know how to trust what I want yet.”
Silas’s voice was barely above a whisper.
“Then we don’t do anything you don’t want.”
“What if I want something and it scares me?”
“Then you can be scared.”
“And?”
“And I’ll wait.”
“For how long?”
Silas looked at her as though the answer were obvious.
“As long as you need.”
Wren kissed him.
It was not dramatic.
No music.
No grand confession.
She simply rose onto her toes, placed one hand against his jaw, and touched her mouth to his.
Silas froze.
Completely.
Wren almost laughed.
The man who could apparently face armed shooters without hesitation had stopped breathing because she kissed him.
She pulled back.
His eyes opened.
“You okay?”
“No.”
Wren smiled.
“Good no or bad no?”
Silas looked at her.
Then, very carefully:
“May I kiss you?”
The question broke something open inside her.
Not pain.
Something warmer.
“Yes.”
This time, when he kissed her, he moved slowly enough that she could stop him at any moment.
She did not.
For the first time in years, desire did not feel like surrender.
It felt like choice.
And somewhere far beneath the hotel, unnoticed by both of them, a security camera turned toward an empty hallway.
A woman in a red coat stepped into view.
May you like
She looked directly at the lens.
And smiled.
