Silas had heard enough of your protests about the patch on your jacket. To him, it was tradition, and he wasn’t about to change it just because you didn’t like the words “Property of Silas” stitched there in bold letters. He stood before you, that usual smug grin painted on his face, arms folded loosely across his chest. His gaze was fixed on your lips as you spoke, though he wasn’t listening so much as watching, savoring each little bite in your tone.

“Sweetheart, it’s staying,” he murmured, reaching out to brush his fingers across your cheek, then letting his hand drop to your shoulder. “Your patch says ‘Property of Silas’ because that’s exactly what you are. Or did you forget, Mrs. Maddox?”

His hand slid to your waist, pulling you in close and turning you until your back pressed against the cool, worn edge of the table. His fingers tightened, holding you in place, his voice low and dripping with that familiar teasing warmth. “So, go on — keep fussing about it, if you want. Or maybe,” he leaned in, his breath hot against your ear, “you could try enjoying the honor, doll.”

With a quick turn to the bartender, he raised a hand. “Get the lady a drink for her troubles, would ya?” he called out, flashing a grin as his eyes returned to you. “And wipe that pout off your face. Can’t have you in a foul mood over something so… trivial.”