"A little."
Silas sets the glass down. He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, clasping his hands. The posture brings him closer to me. The firelight flickers across his face, highlighting the white line of the scar.
I find myself staring at it. I’ve stared at it before, but never this close. Never in this light. It splits his eyebrow perfectly, a jagged interruption to his flawless face.
"You want to ask," he says.
I look into his eyes. "Ask what?"
"About the scar. You’ve been looking at it since the moment I walked into your apartment."
I bite my lip. "How did it happen?"
Silas runs his thumb over the scar, a subconscious gesture. His expression darkens, the shadows on his face deepening.
"My father gave it to me."
The admission hangs in the air, heavy and suffocating.
"Your father?" I whisper. "How old were you?"
"Twelve," he says. "The same age you were when your mother left. Twelve seems to be a pivotal year for broken children."
He picks up the glass again, staring into the amber depths.
"He was a hard man. A cruel man. He believed that fear was the only currency that mattered. He wanted to teach me a lesson about hesitation."
"Hesitation?"
"We were hunting," Silas says, his voice detached, as if he’s reciting a story from a book. "Right here on this estate. He gave me a rifle and told me to shoot a deer. A doe. She was beautiful.Big brown eyes. She wasn't running. she was just... watching me."
I hold my breath, picturing a young Silas, the gun heavy in his hands, facing an innocent creature. It mirrors what happened this morning.
"I couldn't do it," Silas continues. "I hesitated. I lowered the rifle. I looked at him, waiting for permission to let her go."
He takes a long swallow of the scotch.
"He didn't give permission. He took the rifle from my hands. He reversed it. And he struck me across the face with the stock."
I gasp, my hand flying to my mouth. "Oh my God."
"The sight sliced my brow open. Blood everywhere. blinded me in one eye for a week." Silas touches the spot again. "He told me, 'Hesitation is death, Silas. Mercy is a weakness that will get you killed. Next time, you pull the trigger, or you become the target.'"
"That’s... that’s horrific," I say, tears pricking my eyes. Not for myself this time, but for the boy he used to be. "He was a monster."
"He was a teacher," Silas corrects, though his tone is bitter. "He was right. In our world, Ivy, hesitationisdeath. If I had hesitated with the Sokolovs, I would be dead, and you would be in a brothel in Dubai. The scar reminds me of what happens when you try to be soft."
He looks at me then, his gaze intense, piercing.
"That’s why I pushed you today. That’s why I put the gun in your hand. I won't let you be the victim. I won't let you be the deer."
"So you became the hunter," I say softly.
"I became the wolf," he says. "To protect what is mine."
Another crack of thunder splits the air, closer this time. The library lights up with a blue-white flash.
I flinch violently, letting out a small cry. I bury my face in my hands, curling inward.
