"Come on, honey," Silas said, a wicked glint dancing in his eyes. "I was afraid of cats in my childhood. I'm a grown man now. You really think I care about cats?" His voice dropped, taking on a more intimate timbre. "It's something else I care about now."
And with that, he strode past the chubby white cat like it was nothing but a hallway rug. Confidence radiated off him in waves as he crossed the room and came to a stop right in front of Avery, who was still catching her breath from laughing too hard.
Before she could react, he plucked the phone from her hand, flipped the camera into selfie mode, and whispered with a smirk, "Let's record this now."
Before her brain could process what he meant, his arm slid around her waist, pulling her flush against his bare chest. And then—bam—his lips crashed onto hers.
Avery's eyes flew wide open, stunned. Her mind screamed to push him away, to demand an explanation, to shout at him for being so ridiculously unpredictable. But her body… her body betrayed her.
Silas's lips weren't tentative or testing. No, he kissed her like a man drowning, desperate for air, like this was the only way to survive. Bold. Hungry. Possessive.
Her palms instinctively pressed against his chest, the intention to shove him away clear. But the moment her hands made contact with the warm, hard plane of his muscles, her resistance faltered. The feel of his skin beneath her fingers sent an unexpected shiver down her spine, igniting something she didn't want to admit was even there.
Silas deepened the kiss, tilting his head, angling for more. His hand splayed across the small of her back, pulling her tighter, anchoring her to him. His breath mingled with hers, warm and heady, as he kissed her like the world was burning down around them and she was the only thing worth saving.
Avery felt herself slipping. Her eyes fluttered shut against her will. Her fingers curled slightly on his chest, no longer pushing, just… feeling.
And then he bit her lower lip.
A sharp gasp escaped her.
That was it.
Her trance shattered.
Reality came crashing back in, and Avery shoved him away with a force that surprised even her. Her chest heaved with erratic breaths, her cheeks blazed with color, and her lips—those traitorous lips—still tingled from his touch.
Silas looked at her, lips parted, a dazed yet satisfied look in his eyes. His gaze dropped to her lips, now slightly swollen from the heat of their kiss, and something primal flickered in his expression. Desire. Hunger. Control barely hanging by a thread.
Avery couldn't take it. She took her phone from his hand and turned away, hand brushing over her lips like she could erase the moment. What did I just do?
What had she done?
She wasn't supposed to feel anything for him. Not anymore. Not after everything. But that kiss—it had pulled out pieces of her that she thought she'd buried deep.
Silas took a step toward her, hesitant now. "Avy—"
"No," she whispered, not looking back. "Don't."
She didn't trust her voice. Or her heart. Or the way her knees still felt weak beneath her.
Then, without another word, she bolted out of the room.
Her footsteps echoed down the hallway, fading fast, leaving Silas standing there alone. Still shirtless. Still breathless. Still stunned.
He let out a long exhale and dragged a hand through his damp hair, his smirk slowly fading into something softer. Something far more dangerous.
That kiss had been meant to tease her. To get back at her for the cat prank. But the moment her lips melted into his, the lines between games and reality had blurred. He hadn't expected to feel that much.
And now, she was gone.
He sat down on the edge of his bed, elbows on his knees, head lowered.
"Damn," he muttered to himself. "What are you doing to me, Avery Vale?"
He looked down a small smile tugged at the corner of his lips.
Remembering the beautiful moments, Silas let out a long sigh and patted his chest over his heart.
"She's going to be the death of me," he muttered under his breath, half-exasperated, half-awestruck.
But as he turned around, the playful smirk vanished from his face in an instant.
There it was—the demon cat—perched comfortably on the plush carpet near the dresser, its tail twitching like a predator biding its time. Its round, moon-like eyes locked onto him with unsettling intensity, as if it were deciding whether to kill him now or later. Its pristine white fur only made the murderous glint in its eyes more dramatic.
Silas stiffened. "Don't move," he whispered to himself like a soldier spotting a landmine.
His breath caught in his throat.
___
Back when he was seven, he had been a quiet, thoughtful boy who rarely asked for things. But one day, he tugged on his mother's hand and looked up at her with wide, hopeful eyes.
"I want a pet."
The next day, his mother -Lara Blackwood came home with a tiny, fuzzy yellow duckling—soft as cotton, with tiny webbed feet that slapped adorably on the marble floors. Its little quacks followed Silas everywhere, and in no time, it became his best friend. He named it Mr. Woodi, inspired by his own last name—Blackwood.
Every afternoon, after his lessons, Silas would rush to the backyard where Mr. Woodi waddled around in excited circles. They'd play beneath the blooming azaleas, by the koi pond, and sometimes, Silas would talk to the duckling about his day—because Mr. Woodi always listened.
But one day… one horrifying afternoon…
They were playing near the garden hedge when a stray cat, lean and scarred, pounced out from nowhere. Before Silas could even scream, it sank its teeth into Mr. Woodi's neck and vanished into the bushes.
"MR. WOODI!" he had screamed until his throat gave out.
He searched the entire estate. He begged the guards. He sobbed through the night and came down with a fever for days. But Mr. Woodi never came back.
Since then, Silas never liked cats. To a child who lost his best friend to claws and teeth, cats weren't just animals—they were monsters.
Even now, knowing logically that this pampered fluffball Avery had summoned wouldn't eat him alive didn't help. The childhood trauma clung to him like wet clothes.
"Right," Silas muttered, slowly inching toward the door. "Time to relocate you to literally anywhere else."
The cat blinked.
Silas blinked back.
It took a step forward.
He took one back.
This wasn't over.
---------------------------------
The apartment reeked of stale alcohol, rotting leftovers, and desperation. Takeout boxes lay scattered like fallen soldiers on a battlefield. Empty beer bottles rolled across the floor, clinking softly against each other. The thick curtains hadn't been pulled back in days, suffocating the space in musty shadows.
And then—the alarm blared.
Cassian jerked upright from the tangled sheets, groaning.
His chest was bare, covered in a thin sheen of sweat. His hair stuck up in every direction like he'd fought a storm in his sleep. His eyes, red and puffy, blinked blearily as he slammed the alarm off.
"F*ck," he cursed as his foot hit an empty glass bottle on the floor. It rolled away with a clink. He shoved his disheveled hair back with both hands, letting out a frustrated growl.
He stumbled toward the bathroom, kicking an overturned pizza box in the process.
The cold water from the shower stung his skin, but it cleared the fog in his head. Unfortunately, it also cleared the emotional dam he'd built over the last few days. His fists clenched against the tiled wall.
"F*ckkkk!"
It all hit him again—the party, the humiliation, the betrayal.
Avery.
Why had she changed overnight?
She had always been sweet, always considerate, always hanging on his every word—even if it was all for his benefit. He thought he had her wrapped around his finger.
So what the hell happened?
He kicked the air in frustration, nearly slipping.
Was it Layla's fault? Was it that damn Maya girl who ruined everything? Or was it Silas Blackwood?
That smug bastard had showed up out of nowhere and now out of nowhere everything was taken away from him.
His job. His relationship. His status.
Cassian stepped out of the shower and wiped the fogged mirror with a palm, staring at his own reflection. The man staring back wasn't the polished, charming heir to a rising company he was going to be . It was a washed-up mess of a man with bloodshot eyes and a rapidly deteriorating plan.
He tossed on the nearest shirt and jeans—both wrinkled and stained—and grabbed his phone. No calls. No messages.
Layla hadn't reached out either.
Not after their screaming match.
Not after he said things he shouldn't have.
Guilt twitched in his stomach, but he pushed it down.
He had to fix this. All of it. He'd claw his way back if he had to.
He pulled out a drawer, grabbed a small stash of cash he had hidden, and muttered to himself, "Time to go to talk to Layla, and figure out how to turn this mess around. This isn't the end. It can't be."
But as he stepped out of the apartment, he didn't realize the building manager was waiting with an eviction notice—and a smirk that screamed your fall from grace has only begun.