AI The green neon sign of The Raven’s Nest flickered weakly against the rain-slicked pavement, its glow bleeding into the damp air like a bruise. Inside, the hum of low conversation and the clink of glasses felt familiar , even though Rory hadn’t stepped foot in here since the night she left Cardiff for London—since the night she left *him * behind.
She shouldn’t have come. The flat above Silas’ bar was drafty, the delivery routes unpredictable, and the thought of facing Evan again had kept her up half the night. But the letter had been clear: *Come back.* No explanation, no apology—just the old address scrawled in her father’s handwriting, the ink smudged where he’d wiped his thumb across the page. She’d burned it the second she’d read it, but the words had already seared into her skin.
The door swung open before she could hesitate, the bell above it chiming softly . The air inside hit her like a wall—warm, thick with the scent of aged wood and something sharper, like leather and old whiskey. Her breath caught. The bar hadn’t changed. Neither had the way the dim light caught the silver in Silas’ ring, the way his auburn hair still carried the faintest streak of grey at the temples.
He turned, his left leg giving a slight hitch as he adjusted his stance. His hazel eyes locked onto hers, sharp as they always had been, but something in them had sharpened further. Recognition flickered, then dissolved into something colder.
“Rory.”
The name tasted like ash. She swallowed it down.
“Silas.”
A beat. The silence between them stretched, heavy with things unsaid. He didn’t move to embrace her, didn’t offer the drink he’d once poured for her without being asked . Instead, he gestured to the stool beside him , his voice rough as gravel. “You’re not working tonight.”
“No.”
“Then what are you doing here?”
She should’ve lied. Should’ve said she was passing through, that she’d heard the place was good for a drink. But the words stuck in her throat, choking on the truth. “I got a letter.”
His jaw tightened. “From your father.”
Not a question. A statement. She nodded, because what else was there to say?
He exhaled through his nose, a sound like a man who’d spent too many years holding back. “He didn’t tell you.”
“Tell me what?”
“That he’s not the same man you left behind.”
The words hit her like a backhand. She braced herself against the bar, her fingers curling into the worn wood. “What do you mean?”
Silas’ gaze flicked to the hidden bookshelf, the one that led to the back room where they’d once share secrets. He didn’t move, but she saw the tension in his shoulders, the way his free hand twitched toward his pocket. “He’s not the only one.”
The air left her lungs in a rush. “What?”
“Evan.” His voice was low, controlled . “He’s still in Cardiff.”
Rory’s stomach twisted. She’d thought she’d left him behind. Thought she’d outrun him . But the way Silas said his name—like it was a curse—made her skin prickle. “You’ve seen him .”
“Not recently.” He took a slow sip of his drink, watching her over the rim of the glass. “But he’s there. Waiting.”
She laughed, sharp and hollow. “For what? To drag me back to his bed?”
Silas’ expression darkened. “For what he always does. To remind you what you’ve lost.”
The words cut deeper than she’d expected. She thought of the nights she’d spent curled on the floor of her flat, Evan’s voice still echoing in her ears—*You’ll always be mine, Rory. You’ll always come back.* She thought of the way her father’s hands had shaken when he’d written that letter , how he’d looked at her like she was something fragile, something he might break if he looked too hard.
“You look different,” she said, because she couldn’t stand the silence anymore.
Silas’ lips twitched, just once. “So do you.”
She ran her thumb over the scar on her wrist, the one that had festered into something ugly after Evan had tried to burn it off. “I’ve changed.”
“You always did.”
The old familiarity between them was a blade between her ribs. She remembered the way he’d taught her to pick a lock, the way he’d let her sit on his lap in the back room of this bar when she was sixteen and Evan had been a blur of fists and threats. She remembered the way he’d looked at her like she was something precious, something worth protecting.
“What are you doing here, Rory?” he asked again, quieter this time.
She should’ve lied. Should’ve said she was just passing through, that she’d heard the place was good for a drink. But the words died in her throat. “I don’t know.”
Silas studied her for a long moment, his hazel eyes unreadable . Then he gestured to the stool beside him . “Stay.”
She hesitated, then slid onto it. The leather creaked under her weight , familiar and foreign all at once. The bartender—someone new—set a glass of whiskey in front of her, neat and untouched.
“You drink it slow,” Silas said, nodding toward the glass. “Like the rest of your life.”
She picked it up, the amber liquid catching the light. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing.” He took a sip of his own drink, his gaze never leaving hers. “Just an observation.”
She downed the whiskey in one go, the burn sliding down her throat like a brand. Silas watched her, his expression unreadable . “You’ve always been reckless.”
“And you’ve always been a fucking spy.”
His lips quirked, just for a second. “I was a field agent.”
“Same thing.”
He sighed, running a hand through his hair. “You’re not the same girl who walked out of here five years ago.”
“No.”
“And neither am I.”
She studied him , really studied him . The lines around his eyes were deeper. His beard was trimmed shorter, but the grey had spread. His left leg gave another hitch as he shifted his weight , a reminder of the injury that had ended his career.
“What happened?” she asked.
Silas’ gaze flicked to the back room, then back to her. “A job went wrong in Prague.”
“You got hurt.”
“More than that.” He took another sip of his drink, his voice quieter now. “I lost someone.”
Rory’s breath caught. She knew that look . She’d seen it in the mirror every morning since Evan had left her for dead.
“Who?”
“Doesn’t matter.”
“It does to me.”
He exhaled sharply , running a hand through his hair. “A colleague. A friend.”
“You don’t talk about it.”
“There’s nothing to say.”
She reached out, her fingers brushing against his. He didn’t pull away. “Talk to me.”
Silas looked down at their joined hands, then back up at her. His voice was rough, raw. “I was supposed to extract a target. A diplomat. But the building was rigged. Booby traps. Explosives. I got him out. Barely. But the cost was high.”
“What happened?”
“My team. They didn’t make it out.”
Rory’s stomach twisted. She remembered the way Silas had talked about his team, the way he’d looked at them like they were family. “I’m sorry.”
He shook his head, his gaze distant. “It was my fault.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
She squeezed his hand, her voice steady. “You did what you had to do.”
Silas looked at her, his hazel eyes filled with something she couldn’t name. “You always were good at making me feel better.”
She laughed, but it was hollow. “I’m not trying to make you feel better.”
“No.” He looked down at their joined hands, then back up at her. “I just needed to say it out loud.”
She nodded, her throat tight. “I get it.”
Silas looked at her, his expression unreadable . “You really do.”
The silence between them was heavy, charged with something unspoken . She thought of the way Evan had looked at her, the way he’d made her feel like she was nothing more than a possession. She thought of the way Silas had always looked at her, like she was something precious, something worth fighting for.
“What now?” she asked.
Silas looked at her, his hazel eyes filled with something she couldn’t name. “We wait.”
She nodded, her throat tight. “We wait.”
The bartender set another glass of whiskey in front of her, neat and untouched. She picked it up, the amber liquid catching the light. “You drink it slow,” Silas said, nodding toward the glass. “Like the rest of your life.”
She downed the whiskey in one go, the burn sliding down her throat like a brand. Silas watched her, his expression unreadable . “You’ve always been reckless.”
“And you’ve always been a fucking spy.”
His lips quirked, just for a second. “I was a field agent.”
“Same thing.”
He sighed, running a hand through his hair. “You’re not the same girl who walked out of here five years ago.”
“No.”
“And neither am I.”
She studied him , really studied him . The lines around his eyes were deeper. His beard was trimmed shorter, but the grey had spread. His left leg gave another hitch as he shifted his weight , a reminder of the injury that had ended his career.
“What happened?” she asked.
Silas’ gaze flicked to the back room, then back to her. “A job went wrong in Prague.”
“You got hurt.”
“More than that.” He took another sip of his drink, his voice quieter now. “I lost someone.”
Rory’s breath caught. She knew that look . She’d seen it in the mirror every morning since Evan had left her for dead.
“Who?”
“Doesn’t matter.”
“It does to me.”
He exhaled sharply , running a hand through his hair. “A colleague. A friend.”
“You don’t talk about it.”
“There’s nothing to say.”
She reached out, her fingers brushing against his. He didn’t pull away. “Talk to me.”
Silas looked down at their joined hands, then back up at her. His voice was rough, raw. “I was supposed to extract a target. A diplomat. But the building was rigged. Booby traps. Explosives. I got him out. Barely. But the cost was high.”
“What happened?”
“My team. They didn’t make it out.”
Rory’s stomach twisted. She remembered the way Silas had talked about his team, the way he’d looked at them like they were family. “I’m sorry.”
He shook his head, his gaze distant. “It was my fault.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
She squeezed his hand, her voice steady. “You did what you had to do.”
Silas looked at her, his hazel eyes filled with something she couldn’t name. “You always were good at making me feel better.”
She laughed, but it was hollow. “I’m not trying to make you feel better.”
“No.” He looked down at their joined hands, then back up at her. “I just needed to say it out loud.”
She nodded, her throat tight. “I get it.”
The door to the bar swung open, the bell chiming softly . A gust of cold air rushed in, carrying with it the scent of rain and something else—something familiar . Evan’s cologne. Evan’s presence.
Silas’ body tensed beside her, his grip on her hand tightening. “You’re not supposed to be here.”
Evan’s voice was smooth, dangerous. “I’m here to see my wife.”
Rory’s blood turned to ice. She looked at Silas, her eyes wide. “Evan.”
Silas’ voice was low, deadly. “Leave.”
Evan laughed, a sound like broken glass. “Or what? You’ll throw me out?”
Silas stood, his chair scraping against the floor. “I will.”
Evan’s gaze flicked to Rory, his smile widening. “But she’s mine.”
Silas moved before Rory could react, his hand closing around Evan’s collar. “She’s not yours.”
Evan’s eyes widened , then narrowed. “Watch your tongue, old man.”
Silas’ grip tightened, his voice a growl. “She’s not yours.”
Rory stood, her voice steady. “Let him go.”
Silas’ gaze flicked to her, his expression unreadable . “No.”
Evan’s laughter filled the bar, echoing off the walls. “She’s always been a fool.”
Silas’ fist connected with Evan’s jaw, the sound of bone cracking echoing through the room. Evan staggered back, his hands flying to his face. Blood trickled between his fingers, dark and glistening .
Rory’s breath caught. She looked at Silas, her eyes wide. “What are you doing?”
Silas’ gaze flicked to her, his expression unreadable . “Protecting you.”
Evan’s voice was a snarl. “You think you can protect her?”
Silas’ voice was low, deadly. “I will.”
Evan’s eyes widened , then narrowed. “You don’t know what you’re dealing with.”
Silas’ gaze flicked to the back room, then back to Evan. “I know exactly what I’m dealing with.”
The bartender stepped forward, his voice steady. “You’re going to have to leave.”
Evan’s gaze flicked to the bartender, then back to Rory. “She’s coming with me.”
Silas’ voice was low, deadly. “She’s not.”
Evan’s eyes widened , then narrowed. “You’re making a mistake.”
Silas’ gaze flicked to Rory, his expression unreadable . “I’m not.”
Evan’s voice was a snarl. “You don’t know what you’re doing.”
Silas’ voice was low, deadly. “I do.”