บททั้งหมดของ Their Beautiful Madness: บทที่ 11 - บทที่ 20

BeatriceI wake up bright and early, nerves already buzzing in my stomach. It's my first official day on the job, and I'm determined to make a good first impression. No oversleeping. No screw-ups.After a quick shower, I dry off and pull my hair into a single braid. Tight and simple. Keeps it out of my face and makes me look a little more put together than I feel. I stare at my reflection, inhaling slowly. You got this, I whisper to myself, even if I don't entirely believe it yet.I pull on the uniform. Silas didn't ask for my size but it fits like a glove. The black V-neck tee is soft and snug, clinging to my frame in a way that highlights my curves. It dips low enough to show a teasing bit of cleavage, but not enough to get me in trouble. Tasteful, not scandalous. At least from the front.Holy. Fucking. Shit. The leggings.They're high-waisted and buttery smooth, but tight. Like, painted on tight. And they leave nothing, and I mean nothing to the imagination. I twist in front of the

Where the hell is the peanut butter?I open the pantry and scan the shelves. Nothing. I move to the cupboards, opening one by one with increasing frustration. Where do rich people keep the damn peanut butter?The kitchen light flickers to life and I gasp, whirling around. Silas stands in the doorway, freshly showered. His dark hair is no longer slicked back. It's a little messy, curling slightly at the ends. He's in a pair of gray sweatpants that hang dangerously low on his hips, and of course, he's shirtless.Holy. Fuck.His entire torso is covered in tattoos, dark ink sprawled across his chest, snaking down his arms, and curling over his shoulders, chest, and stomach. Every inch of skin is covered and seems to ripple with muscle, and I just... stand there, staring like an idiot. My mouth goes dry and all thoughts of peanut butter vanish from my brain.Silas's eyes drop to my legs the moment he sees me. His gaze is slow, intense, and utterly unbothered by how obvious it is. I swear I

AtticusTucked deep into the far edge of Apex sits the one place most people don't even know exists. Our private condo. Mine and Silas's. It's nestled behind a barrier of dense trees and elevated stone pathways.There are no signs. No lights guiding the way. No page in the glossy resort brochure that dares to mention it. It isn't part of the curated fantasy we sell to guests. It's not designed to impress. Unlike the gilded villas and extravagant suites that scream luxury, this place speaks in silence. It doesn't exist unless I say it does. Unless I want to bring you in.The architecture is clean lines, sleek, and unapologetic. Dark concrete and smoked glass collide with slabs of black stone, all softened by warm wood accents. The exterior blends into the island's surroundings, made to be camouflaged. Inside, the space is open. It's minimalistic, masculine, and intentional. Floor-to-ceiling glass frames the cliffside, where waves crash with a kind of violence I understand. It doesn't m

Finally, the fucker wakes up after what feels like forever. His eyes flutter open, sluggish and confused until he takes in the chains, the steel, the cave and then his eyes lock on me. The piss comes almost instantly. It leaks down his pant leg, pooling beneath the chair. I tend to have that effect on people.I've been called a lot of things over the years, but the Grim Reaper? That one stuck. Fitting, really. For most, I am the last face they ever see. At least it's a good-looking one.Pete's breath comes in shallow, panicked gulps as his eyes widen. "Atticus," he chokes out. "What the fuck are you doing?""You tell me," I say, shrugging. "Is there anything you'd like to get off your chest?""N-no. I haven't done anything," he says, frantic now. "Please. I swear."I click my tongue. Wrong answer."I'm not fond of liars, Pete," I say. My hand drifts to the table beside me, fingers brushing across a neatly laid spread of tools before selecting a knife. I hold it up and admire the way i

SilasI sit behind my computer with next month's financial projections for Apex sprawled out across the screen. Line after line of numbers I usually dissect with precision. But today, they blur together, smearing into meaningless rows of black and white.I can't stop thinking about Beatrice.I lean back in my chair, undo the top button of my dress shirt, and drag a hand down my face. Her image floats behind my eyes. Long dark chocolate hair, wide brown eyes framed with lashes too damn perfect for her own good, and those fucking freckles dusting her nose. She's on my mind all day. Every damn day. At night, it's worse.I picture her in all the ways I shouldn't. Bent over my desk. On her knees. In my bed. I end up having to take care of the ache myself, gripping the sheets with her name on my tongue. She probably thinks it's weird I've been asking her to wash my bed sheets nearly every morning.I glance toward the clock. Late afternoon. The sun is bleeding gold through the window, but I'