Silas didn't ask for my address.
I realized that when the private elevator bypassed the lobby and dropped straight into the underground garage.
"I have clothes at my apartment," I said, watching the floor numbers sink.
"You have a wardrobe full of abrasive synthetic fibers," Silas replied without looking at me. "They smell like static and discount detergent."
I glanced down at my cement-gray suit. It had survived twelve-hour shifts, coffee spills, and three corporate audits.
"It's called being practical on a budget."
"It's called offensive."
The elevator doors opened to a private concrete garage flooded with cold light. No attendants. No exhaust. No lingering mix of oil, cologne, and human breath. Just a row of matte-black vehicles that looked expensive enough to buy a country.
He led me to a sleek sedan.
The moment the doors shut, the air inside felt sterilized. Too clean. Too sealed.
Silas drove in silence. His tie was gone. The top buttons of his shirt were open, showing the hard line of his throat. The red haze in his eyes had faded, but what replaced it was somehow worse—a cold, predatory focus.
The city blurred past in streaks of neon.
I should have been mapping escape routes.
Instead, my mind was stuck on one thought: Vance massacre. Silver Coven.
My family's death was living inside the head of the Alpha King.
That changed everything.
We stopped at a brutalist glass tower in the heart of Manhattan, the kind of place built by men who trusted walls more than people. A private lift took us straight into his penthouse.
The first thing I noticed was the silence.
Not quiet. Silence. Engineered, controlled, complete.
The second was the lack of scent. No food. No polish. No trace of staff or daily life. The place was all pale stone, black glass, and sharp edges. Minimalist to the point of hostility.
"No staff?" I asked.
"I don't tolerate them," Silas said, locking the elevator console behind us. "They smell."
Of course.
He led me down a corridor lit by recessed strips in the floor and stopped at a heavy door.
"Your room."
It was larger than my entire apartment. A huge bed. Thick cream carpet that felt obscene under my cheap shoes. A bathroom paneled in smoked glass. On the bed sat a robe the color of dark champagne, and beside it three sets of clothes in silk and cashmere, all in neutral tones.
"You keep an abduction wardrobe ready?" I asked.
Silas leaned one shoulder against the doorframe. "I keep scent-neutralized clothing. Most fabric treatments reek. These were stripped and cleaned months ago." His gaze settled on my suit. "Take it off, Elara."
Just my name, and somehow it landed like weight.
I didn't argue. Modesty was a luxury, and I was already standing inside his version of captivity.
I unbuttoned the ugly gray jacket without breaking eye contact. His stare never dropped. It stayed fixed on my face, unreadable and absolute, while I traded my office armor for soft cashmere pants and a silk shirt. The fabric was cool at first, then warmed against my skin.
"Better," he said.
He pushed away from the doorframe and crossed to a section of wall I'd taken for paneling. He touched a hidden sensor.
A door slid open.
It didn't lead to the hallway.
It led directly into his bedroom.
I went still.
His room was darker than mine, stripped down to black bedding, glass walls, and a view of the city spread beneath us like a field of knives.
"The door stays open," he said.
"No."
The answer came out before I could soften it.
Silas looked at me without blinking. "The door stays open at night so I can breathe your air."
I folded my arms. "You sleep with the door open because my lack of scent works like a medical device."
His gaze dropped to the pulse at my throat. "Yes."
"That may be the least romantic sentence ever spoken."
"Take the win, Elara."
I almost laughed.
Almost.
"There's filtered water in the kitchen," he continued. "No visitors. No open windows. Text your brother. Then sleep."
He stepped into his room.
A moment later, I heard the faint shift of a mattress.
I stood alone in the silence of my gilded cage.
Then I pulled out my phone and texted Noah.
Working late. Don't wait up. Love you.
His reply came quickly.
Love you too. Did you eat?
My throat tightened for reasons I refused to examine.
I will. Sleep.
I set the phone down and waited.
One hour.
Then two.
Through the open doorway, I could hear Silas breathing—slow, heavy, real. Deep sleep. The first real sleep his body had probably allowed in months.
Because of me.
Because my emptiness gave him something the rest of the world never could: silence.
I should have felt useful.
Instead, I felt watched, even with his eyes closed.
Like this penthouse had already rearranged itself around one brutal fact.
I was no longer an employee.
I was infrastructure.