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  “Are you going to write that into the book?” Love, I mean.

  “Of course. It’s the best part.”

  EPILOGUE

  Holly

  On our first morning in Paris, I wake up to mimosas.

  “If you’re not walking around Paris drunk on champagne, it’s not a honeymoon,” Elijah says as he hands me the glass. There’s a whole tray of food: croissants and eggs benedict and olives and fruit. He must have ordered the entire breakfast menu.

  I laugh without a sound and take a sip of the bubbly orange juice. “What do you know about honeymoons?”

  “I know that ours is perfect.” He drinks his entire flute of mimosa in one swallow. And then he gives me a small, abashed grin. Even though we’re married now, and even though we’ve been living together for months, it still surprises me to see that expression on his face. No one’s smile is more hard-won than Elijah’s. “We have a whole city to explore. Where to first?”

  I know exactly where I want to go first, and I tell him so.

  Elijah shakes his head and laughs. “Do all writers have such an obsession with coming full circle, or is it just you?”

  “You don’t have to be a writer to appreciate symmetry,” I say in a prim voice, though secretly I love when he teases me. Teasing usually turns into something much more fun. But not today—if we have sex all morning, I’ll have to nap all afternoon, and this is our honeymoon. We can stay awake all night instead.

  An hour later, he keeps his hand on the small of my back in the crowd at the Louvre. Sixteen-year-old me had to keep her feet planted and her elbows out to see the Mona Lisa. She didn’t know she was minutes away from meeting the love of her life. All she cared about was finally seeing the most famous painting in the world.

  And that was only the beginning.

  Now I don’t have to keep my elbows out. People just…get out of Elijah’s way. He’s muscled and large and wears an expression that looks like a scowl even when I know he’s pleased. Wherever he’s going, a path opens up for him. It’s like walking around with my own personal security.

  Which he is.

  No one blocks our view of the painting this time. I’m a lot closer than I was when I was sixteen. She still looks small—surprisingly small. I still don’t know why Da Vinci didn’t choose a larger canvas. Something about the size commands my attention. Something about it pulls me in, makes me want to look closer, but the velvet rope stops me.

  Elijah leans down and grazes his teeth along the shell of my ear. “Do her eyes follow you?”

  “No.” This time, when he asks the question, I’m free to turn away from the painting and lean into him. He’s warm and solid against my back. And mine. He’s mine. “Do they follow you?”

  His green eyes twinkle. “Hard to say,” he says. “There are more interesting things in the room. She caught my eye years ago in this very spot. I couldn’t stop looking at her.”

  It’s so strange and shimmering, standing here with him. I half-expect to see a younger version of myself waiting here with a younger version of him. Me pretending to be cool. Him in his museum security clothes. So much space between us.

  “I want to do this,” I say.

  “This?”

  “The tourist stuff. That’s what I want to be in Paris. A tourist. Not someone on the run, with secrets. Not someone with the military closing in. I want to see every sight and go to every tourist trap and buy a bunch of cheesy keychains that cater only to tourists.”

  “Okay, and we should definitely only speak English.”

  That one makes me giggle, because Elijah’s French is flawless. He can actually tailor his accent as if he were from the north or south, if he’s in the upper classes or a working man. He blends in effortlessly here, but it would be funny to see him as the bumbling tourist instead.

  We take an Uber to Notre Dame, which wasn’t on our visiting list when I came here as a teenager. A hushed sort of quiet greets us as we enter the church. The intricate ceiling and stained glass draw my eyes upward. We’ve spent a fair amount of time in churches, Elijah and I, but usually in their basements. There are multiple little stands to light candles, and I stop at every single one, dropping in a small donation and selecting a thin, waxy candle.

  I didn’t come from a religious family, which is ironic. My father was actually a priest before he met my mother, but he fell out of the church, disillusioned and disgraced. Our childhood was loving with easter eggs and warm yuletide traditions, but there was never a sermon to attend on Sundays, never prayers before bedtime. So I’m not even sure I’m doing it right, this prayer thing, but I close my eyes when I light each candle, sending up silent gratitude to whoever looks down on us for keeping Elijah safe, for letting him find his way to me.

  We take a photo in front of the Eiffel Tower and marvel together at its size. I’m too crowd averse to take the elevators up, but we do take plenty of photographs. We play with the distance and perspectives, pretending that he’s holding the Eiffel Tower on his shoulders, pretending I’m squeezing the whole thing between my thumb and forefinger.

  The photos are goofy and out of focus, exactly like they should be for tourists.

  They’re nothing like the glossy-magazine videos that London takes. She started posting on Instagram again but her TikTok has really taken off. The reveal of her role in the scandal only heightened her celebrity. She has an actual page on Wikipedia now. The good stuff gets posted to social media, but she still sends funny outtakes direct to my phone.

  We walk through the shops on Champs-Élysées and pick up lotions and scarves for outrageous amounts of Euros until my feet hurt so much that Elijah insists on carrying me to the car.

  He doesn’t let me get out of bed until the next morning.

  On the fifth day of our honeymoon I find a new dress on the bed when we come back from an afternoon visiting Sacré-Cœur. “Are you taking me on a date?”

  Elijah gives me a mysterious look and turns the next hour into a fun game involving me trying to get ready and him trying to interrupt the process with orgasms. He only stops when a glance at his watch tells him that we’re going to be late.

  I slap him on the shoulder when the car pulls up in front of a large white building with high arches and an elaborate facade. A crowd of well-dressed people enter the front doors.

  “Where are we?”

  “The Théâtre de la Ville.”

  My eyes widen when I take in the poster announcing tonight’s presentation. A world class violinist. Samantha Brooks. I’ve only met her once, at the small civil ceremony that wed Elijah and me. “You didn’t tell me your brother was going to be here.”

  “They had the concert booked a long time ago. Liam was going to leave me alone. He said we didn’t have to come, but I told him I could stop fucking you for a couple hours, probably. It will be a hardship, but I’m willing to do it for family.”

  My cheeks heat. “You did not say that to him.”

  “Of course I did, though now that I think about it, what’s the point of going without? I’m sure we can find a nice quiet, dark place behind some velvet curtains somewhere.”

  It’s not only one of his brothers.

  We meet Joshua and Bethany in the third row.

  He’s wearing a tux. She’s wearing a beautiful diaphanous purple gown that makes her look like majesty even sitting down. She gives us a shy wave hello.

  Josh smirks at Elijah “I didn’t think you two honeymooners were going to make it. Did you get stuck in your hotel room?”

  “Shut the fuck up,” Elijah tells him good-naturedly. “Where’s Liam?”

  “Backstage with Samantha.” Joshua leans over Elijah, looking like he’s about to say something else, but the lights dim before he can. We are at home in this small circle of family. His family. Mine. “Never mind—I’ll tell you later.”

  A single light illuminates the stage, and Samantha Brooks comes out from the wings, ethereal in a silk black dress. She takes her position center stage and b
ows her head over her violin.

  I hold my breath.

  The theater falls into a deep, surreal silence. We’re all waiting for her to move, for the song to begin. It’s the exact feeling I had at sixteen in the moments before I met Elijah.

  Stillness, then motion. Silence, then a beginning.

  Samantha draws her bow across the strings.

  We’re not waiting anymore.

  The tune she plays is both haunting and romantic, and beside me, Elijah takes a deep breath. He reaches for me without looking. It’s a good assumption. I’ll always be here, next to him.

  I link my fingers with his and hold his hand tight.

  * * *

  Thank you for reading SILVER LINING! There’s a free bonus epilogue, too. Make sure you’re signed up for the VIP Reader list so you get it in your inbox:

  www.skyewarren.com/silver-epilogue

  And if you loved the North brothers, read Liam North’s story now!

  Forbidden fruit never tasted this sweet…

  “Swoon-worthy, forbidden, and sexy, Liam North is my new obsession.”

  – New York Times bestselling author Claire Contreras

  The world knows Samantha Brooks as the violin prodigy. She guards her secret truth—the desire she harbors for her guardian.

  Liam North got custody of her six years ago. She’s all grown up now, but he still treats her like a child. No matter how much he wants her.

  No matter how bad he aches for one taste.

  READ OVERTURE NOW >

  The middle North brother Joshua also has a book!

  Blood and sweat. Bethany Lewis danced her way out of poverty. She’s a world class athlete… with a debt to pay.

  Joshua North always gets what he wants. And the mercenary wants Bethany in his bed. He wants her beautiful little body bent to his will.

  She doesn’t surrender to his kiss.

  He doesn’t back down from a challenge.

  It’s going to be a sensual fight… to the death.

  AUDITION is an emotional second chance romance!

  Keep reading for an excerpt from OVERTURE…

  * * *

  Rest, Liam told me.

  He’s right about a lot of things. Maybe he’s right about this. I climb onto the cool pink sheets, hoping that a nap will suddenly make me content with this quiet little life.

  Even though I know it won’t.

  Besides, I’m too wired to actually sleep. The white lace coverlet is both delicate and comfy. It’s actually what I would have picked out for myself, except I didn’t pick it out. I’ve been incapable of picking anything, of choosing anything, of deciding anything as part of some deep-seated fear that I’ll be abandoned.

  The coverlet, like everything else in my life, simply appeared.

  And the person responsible for its appearance? Liam North.

  I climb under the blanket and stare at the ceiling. My body feels overly warm, but it still feels good to be tucked into the blankets. The blankets he picked out for me.

  It’s really so wrong to think of him in a sexual way. He’s my guardian, literally. Legally. And he has never done anything to make me think he sees me in a sexual way.

  This is it. This is the answer.

  I don’t need to go skinny-dipping in the lake down the hill. Thinking about Liam North in a sexual way is my fast car. My parachute out of a plane.

  My eyes squeeze shut.

  That’s all it takes to see Liam’s stern expression, those fathomless green eyes and the glint of dark blond whiskers that are always there by late afternoon. And then there’s the way he touched me. My forehead, sure, but it’s more than he’s done before. That broad palm on my sensitive skin.

  My thighs press together. They want something between them, and I give them a pillow. Even the way I masturbate is small and timid, never making a sound, barely moving at all, but I can’t change it now. I can’t moan or throw back my head even for the sake of rebellion.

  But I can push my hips against the pillow, rocking my whole body as I imagine Liam doing more than touching my forehead. He would trail his hand down my cheek, my neck, my shoulder.

  Repressed. I’m so repressed it’s hard to imagine more than that.

  I make myself do it, make myself trail my hand down between my breasts, where it’s warm and velvety soft, where I imagine Liam would know exactly how to touch me.

  You’re so beautiful, he would say. Your breasts are perfect.

  Because Imaginary Liam wouldn’t care about big breasts. He would like them small and soft with pale nipples. That would be the absolute perfect pair of breasts for him.

  And he would probably do something obscene and rude. Like lick them.

  My hips press against the pillow, almost pushing it down to the mattress, rocking and rocking. There’s not anything sexy or graceful about what I’m doing. It’s pure instinct. Pure need.

  The beginning of a climax wraps itself around me. Claws sink into my skin. There’s almost certain death, and I’m fighting, fighting, fighting for it with the pillow clenched hard.

  “Oh fuck.”

  The words come soft enough someone else might not hear them. They’re more exhalation of breath, the consonants a faint break in the sound. I have excellent hearing. Ridiculous, crazy good hearing that had me tuning instruments before I could ride a bike.

  My eyes snap open, and there’s Liam, standing there, frozen. Those green eyes locked on mine. His body clenched tight only three feet away from me. He doesn’t come closer, but he doesn’t leave.

  Orgasm breaks me apart, and I cry out in surprise and denial and relief. “Liam.”

  It goes on and on, the terrible pleasure of it. The wrenching embarrassment of coming while looking into the eyes of the man who raised me for the past six years.

  My hips pump against the mattress, pulling out the last few pulses between my legs.

  And then I’m lying there, wrapped tight around a pillow, unable to move, panting.

  I’ve never seen Liam looking anything other than calm and cool and capable. He can handle anything with a command that’s almost terrifying in its competency. Right now he looks at a loss.

  His voice is low and rough. “We should talk about this.”

  I can’t think of anything in the world I’d rather do less. “Or we could just…” I hate that I still somehow sound breathy and turned on. There are little quivers in my thighs. “Pretend this never happened?”

  “Come downstairs when you’re—”

  The sentence hangs between us, leaving me to fill in the blank. Come downstairs when you’re done fucking yourself in the bed I bought for you. Come downstairs when you’re done humiliating yourself.

  He gives a short nod, as if the unspoken answer is the right one.

  Then he turns, an about-face appropriate to any military ceremony.

  Alone in the room I have no choice but to face the mechanics of untangling myself. Unclenching my fists from the pillow. Pulling apart my legs. Acknowledging the dampness between my thighs.

  “Please be a dream,” I whisper, but my face is too hot. Burning up. This is real.

  One-click OVERTURE Now >

  Books by Skye Warren

  Endgame Trilogy & more books in Tanglewood

  The Pawn

  The Knight

  The Castle

  The King

  The Queen

  Escort

  Survival of the Richest

  The Evolution of Man

  The Bishop

  Mating Theory

  North Security Trilogy & more North brothers

  Overture

  Concerto

  Sonata

  Audition

  Chicago Underground series

  Rough

  Hard

  Fierce

  Wild

  Dirty

  Secret

  Sweet

  Deep

  Stripped series

  Tough Love

  Love the Way
You Lie

  Better When It Hurts

  Even Better

  Pretty When You Cry

  Caught for Christmas

  Hold You Against Me

  To the Ends of the Earth

  Standalone Dangerous Romance

  Wanderlust

  On the Way Home

  Hear Me

  For a complete listing of Skye Warren books, visit

  www.skyewarren.com/books

  About the Author

  Skye Warren is the New York Times bestselling author of dangerous romance such as the Endgame trilogy. Her books have been featured in Jezebel, Buzzfeed, USA Today Happily Ever After, Glamour, and Elle Magazine. She makes her home in Texas with her loving family, sweet dogs, and evil cat.

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  Copyright

  This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved. Except for use in a review, the reproduction or use of this work in any part is forbidden without the express written permission of the author.

  Silver Lining © 2020 by Skye Warren

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