Chapter 17: Unspoken Storms
Caden's cheek still burned, the sting of her slap burning sharper than any bruise. But deeper than the physical pain was the raw, aching blow to his pride his control slipping through his fingers like sand.
Before Amara could step away, his hand shot out with sudden force, fingers clamping around her cheeks as if trying to physically hold her defiance in place. His grip was harsh, unyielding fingers pressing into her skin so tightly that the pain flared beneath the surface, but still, she refused to break.
His eyes darkened with fury, burning so fiercely they could have scorched flesh. His voice dropped to a low hiss, trembling with a volatile mix of anger, disbelief, and something more something closer to desperation.
"You think a slap makes you strong?" he growled, face just inches from hers. "You think you get to walk away from me, after that?"
His jaw tightened, teeth clenched as he fought to keep the storm inside from exploding outward. His breath came quick, ragged anger burning so hot it threatened to consume him whole.
But Amara didn't flinch.
Didn't back down.
Didn't even blink.
Her eyes met his head-on steady, unyielding filled not with fear but with something fiercer: defiance. No tears welled, no hesitation. Only the blazing fire of a woman who had finally found the courage to stand up against the man who had haunted her for too long.
Her hands hung limply at her sides, fists clenched so tight her knuckles whitened. She refused to give him the satisfaction of weakness.
"I'm not scared of you anymore," she said quietly, her voice steady but heavy with buried pain.
The words landed like a blow, stirring the rage inside him into a tempest. His grip on her cheeks tightened for a heartbeat then suddenly loosened, his fingers slipping away like a serpent retreating into the shadows.
His chest heaved, caught between fury and something rawer, hurt, confusion, a twisted ache he couldn't name.
Before he could say anything else, before the words of blame or threats could spill out, the tension shattered.
Knock. Knock.
The sharp sound sliced through the thick tension, halting them both mid-breath. For a moment, the room seemed to hold its breath, the electric charge between them snapping like a fragile thread stretched too thin.
A calm, measured voice floated from the other side of the door, entirely at odds with the storm inside.
"Mr. Caden, Miss Amara? Your bags have been brought up."
The head housekeeper's words were steady, polite, business as usual, but the weight they carried was unmistakable a reminder that the world outside this room still turned, oblivious to the battle waging within.
Caden said nothing. His fingers, which had gripped Amara's cheeks moments before like iron bands, slackened instantly, as if her skin had suddenly burned him. He let his hand fall away, almost like releasing something dangerous.
Amara stepped back quietly, her hand instinctively moving to rub the sting on her cheek, breath escaping her lips in a soft, controlled exhale. Her eyes, still fierce, watched him carefully, waiting for whatever would come next.
Caden moved to the door, opening it just a crack to receive the bags being handed up. He grabbed one without looking at the housekeeper, muttering, "Leave them here."
The housekeeper nodded without question and slipped away, the soft closing of the door echoing through the still room.
The silence that settled was thick and suffocating not the calm after a storm, but the heavy pause before the next wave. It felt like a weight pressing down on them both, squeezing the air from the space.
And the cruelest part of all the silence came with an unspoken truth hanging between them:
They were expected to share the same room tonight.
Caden dropped the bag carelessly near the wardrobe, the fabric rustling like dry leaves in a cold wind. Without a word, without even a glance in Amara's direction, he turned sharply and disappeared into the en suite bathroom, the door clicking shut behind him.
The sound was final.
Amara stood frozen for a heartbeat, the echo of the slam still reverberating in her chest.
The battle wasn't over. Not by a long shot.
The shower roared to life, drowning out the silence that had settled between them.
Inside the small, steam-filled enclosure, thick mist curled and clung to the glass, blurring the world outside and trapping him in his own suffocating storm. Hot water cascaded over his tense shoulders and back, but it offered no comfort only a searing reminder of the fire raging inside him.
His fists clenched so tightly the knuckles went white, fingers digging into palms as if trying to squeeze the anger out. His jaw was locked like iron, teeth grinding with every breath that felt too sharp, too heavy.
The rage twisted in his gut like a living thing raw, uncontrollable, vicious. It wasn't just anger at Amara. It was anger at himself. At his own helplessness. At the chaos she stirred inside him that he couldn't command.
Why does she get under my skin like this?
Why can't I make her obey?
Why can't I make this stop?
He pressed his forehead hard against the cold tile, the sharp contrast biting into his burning skin. He tried to steady his ragged breath, to quiet the pounding in his skull that matched the storm in his chest.
That look in her eyes the fire, the defiance. Like he was nothing. Like she didn't need him, didn't fear him, didn't care about any of it anymore.
It was a punch to the gut, a wound deeper than any bruise he could leave on her skin.
He hated it.
He hated that it hurt so much.
He hated that she had the power to break him even as he held her captive.
And most of all, he hated that he couldn't stop feeling it.
When he finally stepped out of the shower, steam still clinging to his damp skin, a towel carelessly slung low around his waist, his eyes immediately sought Amara's.
But she didn't even look his way.
Her movements were deliberate, cool, untouchable. She gathered her clothes with calm precision, slipping quietly into the bathroom adjoining the room. The door closed behind her with a soft click, a sound that carried more finality than any shouted argument.
Caden stood there for a moment, muscles tense, every part of him screaming to reach out, to say something anything. But the silence stretched, thick and suffocating.
Minutes later, the bathroom door opened, and Amara stepped out. She wore fresh clothes, simple but elegant, and her damp hair fell in loose waves around her shoulders, softening the sharp lines of her jaw. There was a quiet strength in the way she moved, but also a cold distance.
She found Caden sitting on the edge of the bed, his posture stiff, fingers scrolling absently through his phone. His face was unreadable, an impassive mask that betrayed none of the turmoil he carried beneath.
Amara didn't speak. Didn't meet his gaze. She simply walked over to the sofa nestled in the corner, took a pillow from the bed, and settled down, turning her back to him like a silent declaration.
The space between them was charged with unspoken words and festering grudges, thick enough to choke on.
Neither one made a move to bridge it.
That was when Caden broke the silence, his voice cold, sharp, and dripping with cruel mockery.
"Oh, so now you're shy?" he sneered, eyes narrowing into slits of contempt. "Scared little saint, huh? Putting on that innocent act for my cousin too? Trying to play the perfect little angel?"
Amara didn't flinch. Didn't even give the faintest twitch of acknowledgment.
He waited, hungry for some reaction, anger, fear, anything.
But there was only silence.
No defense. No protest. No fire.
She closed her eyes deliberately, pulling the blanket tighter around her shoulders, shutting him out. Her breaths were steady, almost serene, calm in the face of his storm.
Caden's laughter was bitter, hollow. He tossed his phone aside with a harsh snap against the floor.
"She's not even trying anymore," he muttered under his breath, voice raw.
That silence, her quiet retreat, cut deeper than any slap ever could.
Because to Caden, silence was the worst kind of rejection.
No fight. No rage. No tears.
Just cold, absolute withdrawal.
She was done with him. Done with the charade. Done with everything.
His heart thudded painfully against his ribs, anger boiling and twisting into something darker, resentment, jealousy, and a raw ache of helplessness all tangled into one.
She used to smile at me. Light up the room with that smile.
Now? Now she doesn't even look my way.
His jaw clenched so tightly it hurt. He turned onto his side, facing away from the sofa where she lay, her back rigid, unyielding.
The silence between them was deafening. It swallowed every word that went unsaid, every emotion crushed under the weight of their shared space.
Outside, the night lay peaceful and unaware.
But inside that room, two souls existed in the same air, close enough to touch, yet galaxies apart.
And the night stretched on endlessly, long, brutal, and merciless.