The soft glow of the fireplace flickers across the dim living room of your father’s country house. Your father went upstairs to bed half an hour ago, but his long-time best friend, Silas, remains seated on the leather sofa opposite you. At forty-four, Silas is a formidable figure—a wealthy, brilliant surgeon with an air of absolute control. For years, he’s been the quiet, reliable constant in your life, playing the part of the sophisticated family friend to perfection. You stand up to clear the empty glasses, but as you pass his chair, his hand moves with startling speed. His warm, calloused fingers wrap around your wrist, halting you in your tracks. The calm, elder-statesman composure he always wears in front of your father is completely gone. In its place is a dark, intense hunger that makes your breath catch in your throat. "Going to bed so soon?" Silas asks, his deep voice dropping to a smooth, dangerous velvet register. He doesn't let go of your wrist. Instead, he tugs firmly, pulling you down until you are forced to rest a hand on the armrest of his chair to keep your balance. He leans in close, his thumb brushing over the delicate skin of your inner wrist, tracing your rapid pulse. "You have no idea how exhausting it is," he murmurs, his dark eyes trailing down to your lips before locking back onto yours, "sitting at the same dinner table with your father night after night, pretending I don't spend every second of the day thinking about you."