Page 4 of The Silent Hour

His smile widened into something that should have been a warning.

And that was how Ethan Marcelli went from number seven on a drunken scavenger hunt to the man whose last name I would eventually put behind my own, but that night, I didn't know any of that.

I only knew the lights were warm, the tie was still in my hand, and the way he'd said my name was going to be very hard to forget.

Later, there would be a thousand things I remembered about Ethan. The way he loved me would be one of them.

So would the way he broke my heart.

CHAPTER TWO

IF YOU EVER WONDERED how, you avoid ending up on a True-Crime documentary, don’t ask me.

I woke to the taste of regret coating my tongue, and my skull throbbing in time with some distant bass line still echoing in my memory. Each pulse behind my eyes was a kick drum, each swallow a dry scrape of cotton against raw throat.

The light filtering through the blackout shutters wasn't bright, but it was enough to make my vision swim, the world tilting on its axis as I tried to piece together where the hell, I was.

The first thing I noticed was the bed.

It was soft in a way mine had never been and I had a top tier mattress. This felt like sinking into a cloud that had swallowed me whole. The sheets were cool, buttery smooth, and smelled faintly of something expensive I couldn't place.

Blackout shutters lined the floor-to-ceiling windows, but even half-closed they couldn't hide the sprawl of the city glittering at dawn, skyscrapers stretching into a watercolor sky.

This damn sure wasn't my apartment.

My place was nice, sure. Two bedrooms, clean lines, a balcony I could just about squeeze two chairs onto if I angled them right. I could have gone all out luxury and instead chose quaint and chic. This place screamed I've got money. The polished wood floors, the high ceiling, the oversized rug underfoot, even the lamp beside me.

I pushed up on my elbows, head throbbed harder, and glanced around for something familiar. My purse was slumped in a chair across the room, my shoes abandoned like I'd just shed pieces of myself on the way in. There wasn't a single clue as to whose bed this was until I breathed in.

Ah, shit.

Drunk or sober I wouldn't forget this scent. I pushed myself upright, head throbbing, and only then realized what I was wearing. A man’s T-shirt soft enough to ruin me for every piece of cotton I'd ever owned. So, definitely not mine.

I didn't panic. My body felt exactly as it had when I'd collapsed into bed—heavy, exhausted, but intact. There was no telltale ache between my thighs, no lingering soreness that would've signaled his presence there. If he'd been inside me, my muscles would have remembered the stretch, my skin would have carried the imprint of his grip.

Unfortunately, I had not gotten lucky. God, it had been so long since I got dick. I could practically feel the dust bunnies gathering, a whole ecosystem of neglect thriving in the dark warmth between my thighs. A spider could've spun a full tapestry down there by now, complete with trapped flies and signed artwork in the corner.

A groan tore from me, muffled by the heels of my hands pressed hard against my eyes. The footsteps that pulled me from my spiral were measured, confident—a sound that belonged in this polished, silent space. I jerked my head up just as he filled the doorway.

His crisp white dress shirt was rolled to the elbows, revealing forearms corded with muscle and a map of black ink. The tattoos weren't just designs; they were fragments of a story—untranslatable script weaving between veins, symbols that seemed to shift as his muscles flexed. His slacks were tailored so perfectly they might as well have been painted on, hinting at the power in his thighs.

He carried a heavy wooden tray laden with a plate of golden toast, a bowl of deep red berries, a tall glass of water beaded with condensation like morning dew, and two small white pills that promised salvation from the jackhammer in my skull.

"Good morning," he said, his voice a low rumble. Then, softer, an accent I hadn't caught last night curling around the edges like smoke. "Buongiorno, bella."

I blinked, trying to process him. He was too much—too tall, to put together, and far too vividly real for my dehydrated haze. He crossed the room with an easy grace, setting the tray on the nightstand without a single clatter before straightening to look down at me.

"You want to know how you ended up here," he stated. It wasn't a question. His eyes held mine and I had the unnerving sense he'd already started to catalog every version of me. The drunk mess from last night, the hungover wreck now, and maybe even the woman I pretended to be when sober.

I opened my mouth, dry and useless.

"I was going to have a car take you home," he continued without waiting. "That was the plan, but your friend—Latoya, is it? —she wouldn't have it." The faintest twitch of amusement touched his lips. "She and your other friend started shouting about stranger danger loud enough to turn heads at the valet stand."

I groaned, dragging a pillow over my face to block out the humiliation. "God. Please tell me you're lying."

He didn't answer. The silence stretched, thick and telling.

"You then demanded I be the one to take you," he continued after a moment, a low, amused rumble in his voice. "Didn't give me much of a choice. You were already half-asleep in the back of my car before I'd even pulled from the curb. I suppose I should be flattered the stranger danger didn't seem to apply to me."