Page 64 of Vows of Silence

She was adapting tomespecifically.

Not just the basement.

Not captivity.

Me.

She had started recognising my moods before I even entered the room. She noticed changes in my breathing, the clench of my fists, the subtle shifts in posture that most people overlooked entirely. She understood rewards now. Understood displeasure. Understood being observed.

And more dangerous than all of that, she had begun responding intentionally.

The smiles.

The praise.

The soft little thank yous spoken whilst looking directly at me, instead of avoiding my gaze like she had when she’d first arrived here.

She was learning how to influence me.

A smarter man would have stopped it immediately. Instead, I found myself wanting more.

My eyes drifted back to the monitor, settling on the silver choker around her throat. Even now, whilst searching for clues, she still wore it.

Mine.

The thought came naturally now. Effortlessly.

Mine.

The office door opened behind me, but I already knew who it was from the sound of the footsteps alone.

“Oh, for fuck's sake, Silas. This again?”

Rafael’s voice filled the room as he entered, irritation soaked into every word. I didn’t immediately respond, my attention still fixed on Isabelle downstairs as she flipped through one of the books covered in my annotations.

Curious little bird.

“The Vescaris have a shipment arriving tonight. Stanislav is asking where his girl is. You have commitments, Silas. You can’t be sitting here obsessing over that woman,” Rafael snapped.

Slowly, I leaned back in my chair and finally looked at him. Age had weakened parts of him over the years, but not his presence. Men still feared Rafael Falcone instinctively. Politicians feared him. Police feared him. Entire organisations feared him.

But tonight, beneath the anger, I saw something else lingering there too.

Concern.

“When are the girls arriving?” he demanded.

The girls,I scoffed internally. He knew full well when they were arriving. Tuesday at two AM. The same as every week. Auctions on a Saturday. Same as always.

I went back to my computer, loading up the live feed and displayed it for him.

He shuffled closer, bending down to inspect the screen. “Hmm.” He said, observing the twelve terrified women. “Good. I think I’ll bid on the red-head this week. Where is she from?”

I zoomed in on the shipment that said the boat was arriving from Ireland.

“Ahh, Irish. God love ‘em,” he grinned, slapping his hand on my shoulder.

I resisted the urge to shudder.