Chapter 4: The Tending of Wounds

The cool cloth against Leo’s throbbing cheek was a lifeline. The gentleness of Silas’s touch, so incongruous with his lethal capability and the violence that had just shattered the penthouse, shattered something inside Leo too. He leaned into the pressure, eyes squeezed shut against the sting of tears and disinfectant, but mostly against the overwhelming vulnerability. Silas’s hand on his shoulder was a grounding weight, the only thing preventing him from dissolving into the cold marble floor.

Silas worked in focused silence. His movements were precise, efficient – a soldier tending a comrade, yet imbued with a tenderness Leo had never experienced from anyone, let alone this formidable man. He carefully cleaned the blood from Leo’s cheekbone and split lip, his knuckles brushing Leo’s jawline with feather-light contact. Each touch sent a tremor through Leo, not of fear, but of something terrifyingly new: a desperate, aching need for this unexpected solace.

He dared to open his eyes. Silas’s face was inches away, his expression grimly intent. The fury Leo had glimpsed earlier was banked, controlled, but still simmered in the depths of his storm-grey eyes, visible only this close. He saw the tightness around Silas’s mouth, the rigid set of his shoulders beneath the dark suit jacket. He saw the faint scar on his jawline, a pale reminder of other battles, other pain. In that moment, Silas wasn’t the impassive bodyguard. He was a man consumed by a quiet, righteous rage on Leo’s behalf.

“He shouldn’t…” Silas’s voice rasped, low and dangerous, breaking the fragile silence. He didn’t finish the sentence. *He shouldn’t have done this. He shouldn’t touch you.* The unspoken words hung heavy in the small, tiled room.

Leo swallowed, the metallic taste of blood still strong. “He… he was angry,” he whispered, the excuse automatic, ingrained. A defense mechanism honed over years.

Silas’s gaze snapped up, locking onto Leo’s. The intensity was scorching. “Anger isn’t an excuse for *this*.” His thumb brushed lightly beside the swollen split on Leo’s lip, a touch so fleeting Leo might have imagined it, yet it burned like a brand. “No one deserves this, Leo.” He used Leo’s first name. Not ‘sir’. Not ‘Mr. Moretti-Rossi’. *Leo.*

The simple intimacy of it stole Leo’s breath. He stared, transfixed, into Silas’s eyes, seeing the reflection of his own battered face, seeing the fierce protectiveness, seeing the dangerous line Silas had crossed just by being here, locked in this room, touching him with such care. The spark wasn't just fanned; it was a flame now, licking at the walls Leo had built around his heart.

Silas seemed to realize the weight of his words, his own transgression. He looked away, his jaw tightening again. He finished cleaning the worst of the blood, his touch becoming slightly more clinical, though still infinitely careful. He dampened another corner of the cloth and gently pressed it against Leo’s swollen eye. The cold felt good, numbing the sharpest edge of the pain.

“Hold this here,” Silas instructed, guiding Leo’s hand to the cool compress over his eye. Their fingers brushed again, another electric jolt. Silas quickly withdrew, stepping back half a pace, creating space that felt suddenly vast and cold. He looked down at the bloodstained cloth in his own hand, then crumpled it and tossed it into the sink. He washed his hands methodically, the sound of the water loud in the quiet.

Leo leaned against the sink, the cool porcelain seeping through his shirt. He held the compress to his face, watching Silas’s reflection in the mirror. The impassive mask was back, but it looked strained now, fractured. The man who had tended him with such fierce tenderness was still there, just beneath the surface.

“Thank you,” Leo whispered, the words thick.

Silas didn’t turn. He dried his hands meticulously. “You need ice. And rest.” His voice was back to its professional monotone, but it lacked its usual absolute certainty. “I’ll… procure some ice.” He moved towards the door, unlocking it. The click sounded final, like a door slamming shut on the raw intimacy of the past few minutes.

“Silas,” Leo said, stopping him just as his hand touched the doorknob.

Silas paused, his back still to Leo. He didn’t turn, but his posture was rigid, waiting.

Leo searched for words. What could he say? *Don’t go? See me again? Protect me always?* It all sounded pathetic, dangerous. “The glass…” he managed lamely, gesturing weakly towards the foyer. “In the foyer. I broke the table.”

Silas finally turned. His expression was unreadable, but his gaze swept over Leo again, taking in his hunched posture, the compress held to his face, the lingering tremors. “I’ll handle it,” he stated. “Go to your room, Leo. Lock the door. Rest.” The command was gentle, but firm. Protective. *His* protection now, not just Dominic’s employee.

He opened the door and stepped out into the dimly lit hallway, leaving Leo alone in the powder room once more. But this solitude felt different. The cold dread was still there, the phantom ache of Dominic’s fist, the terrifying knowledge of his captivity. But layered over it, warm and dangerous, was the memory of Silas’s touch. The gentleness of his hands. The fury in his eyes. The sound of his voice saying his name. *Leo.*

Leo looked at his own reflection again. The bruises were livid, painful, undeniable marks of his husband’s ownership. But beneath the swelling, beneath the fear, something else flickered in his eyes. A tiny ember of defiance, kindled by the silent sentinel who had dared to see him, to touch him, to *care*.

He took a shaky breath, adjusted the compress, and pushed himself away from the sink. Following Silas’s instructions felt like an act of rebellion. He walked quietly down the hall towards his own suite of rooms – a gilded annex to Dominic’s domain, never truly his own. As he passed the foyer, he saw Silas already there, kneeling amidst the shattered glass. He was carefully picking up the larger pieces, his movements economical and silent. He didn’t look up as Leo passed.

Leo slipped into his room and locked the door, leaning his back against it. The silence pressed in, but the ghost of Silas’s touch lingered on his skin, warmer than the ice he pressed to his face. The cage still held him, its bars cold and unforgiving. But the lock… the lock felt different now. Less absolute. Because the keeper of the cage, the silent shadow, had just shown him a key. A key forged in shared pain and unexpected tenderness. The tending of wounds had begun, not just on his face, but on his soul. And Leo knew, with a terrifying certainty, that nothing would ever be the same. The spark had ignited a fire, and he was standing right in its path.