“Did you make me a sandwich?”
“You need to eat.” Silas dropped onto his ass next to her, carelessly shoving trunks out of his way to make room. He’d been in and out of the living room all day, his energy a living, restless thing, but he came back to check on her every half hour or so.
Of course, he didn’tsayit was to check on her, but she knew. She felt his need and his concern, clumsy though it was, in every possessive touch of her hair and quick, harsh kiss.
“I can’t eat that whole thing,” she protested, eyeing the comically overstuffed sandwich dubiously. He’d paired it with amound of her preferred chips, too. Her stomach lurched again.The demon can be sweet, and I might be the only person in the world who knows that. Talk about privileged information.
“How about we share?”
Silas gave her another one of his scorching looks, but Petra had to glance away. She was still getting used to that sensation of acute exposure she got whenever he looked at her like heknew.
He knew it all. He wanted it all. It was heady and more than a little terrifying.
“I’ll take half, but you eat the chips.” He accepted the plate when she passed it to him, then settled it on the thick muscle of his thigh.
Worried she’d lose her nerve, Petra leaned over quickly to press a kiss to his cheek. “Thank you for taking care of me,” she whispered.
He skimmed his hand over the cage of her ribs before settling it on her hip. Giving it a possessive squeeze, he replied, “Demons are supposed to be good mates. I don’t know what I’m doing, though, so you’re going to have to tell me when I do it right or fuck it up.”
He hadn’t said it in any sort of bashful, soft way. There was no vulnerability in his tone. If anything, he said it harshly, like he was annoyed he was expected to care about silly stuff like looking after a mate. But Petra saw him as clearly as he saw her.
“You’re doing good so far.” She pulled back with a smile.Gods, this man is a mess. Good thing I am, too, or we’d really be screwed.
“Tal normally tells me if I’m being a shithead or not,” he muttered, nudging the food in her direction. “But he’s not allowed near the house, so you gotta do it.”
Plucking a chip off the plate, she asked, “Who’s Tal?”
Silas had given her the basic, bare-bones rundown of his massive clan, but so far he’d only given her a handful ofnames. That was likely because he knew she’d never be able to remember more than that, especially when she had no faces to connect them to. She knew his matriarch, his parents, his uncle, and a smattering of cousins. The only reason she knew that much was because he’d explained to her that his family kept their town locked down tight with regular security checks and perimeter patrols.
His uncle ran the successful whiskey business that employed almost the entire family, but historically they hadn’t always been on the right side of the law — and they protected what was theirs. So, in Silas’s words, she didn’t need to lose a wink of sleep over whether the Ardeo would track her there, because the Cuttcombe clan took their “shoot first” policy as more of a family motto.
Petra assumed Tal was another member of the clan, and though she was interested in learning about Silas’s family, she didn’t think too much of her question. Reaching for another chip with one hand while simultaneously digging around in the trunk with another, she pulled out an old, hand-sewn leather book.
As she opened it up to a random, yellowed page covered in columns of numbers —measurements?— Silas answered, “Tal is my brother. He’s a wraith.”
Petra nearly choked on her chip. Attention snapping to the demon lounging beside her, she wheezed, “You have a brother?” Then, half a second later, “What do you mean he’s awraith?”
“Tal isn’t technically my brother,” Silas amended. “He’s my only friend.”
“And he’s… a wraith.” Her mind worked hard to make sense of that even as she connected the dots to what he’d shown her the previous day. “You’re buildinghima body?”
Silas picked up his half of the monstrous sandwich and took an obscenely large bite. He nodded as he chewed, looking completely at ease.
Very aware of Silas’s vulnerabilities, even ifhewasn’t, Petra took a deep breath and turned her upper body to face him. She couldn’t just demand answers or call him crazy. There had to be something more going on, and she could at least let him explain himself before she started worrying about him seeing boogeymen.
“Demon,” she began, very gently, “I’d appreciate it if you explained exactly what all of that means, because up until yesterday, I thought the consensus was that wraiths were about as real as ghosts.”
“People believe in ghosts,” he challenged, lips curling in a shadow of his mocking grin, “and people believe in gods. Wraiths are more real than either of those.”
“Maybe,” she begrudgingly allowed, “but I don’t claim to be best friends with Glory.”
“Wraiths are real. The reason there are stories about them is because everyone has probably seen one. They just can’t make themselves known to most people. As far as I know, only a few demons in a generation can communicate with them. My family history says I’m the first.”
The shadows around her throat shifted, swirling and caressing until they draped over her shoulders and chest. All around the room, dark corners moved ever-so-slightly, responding to Silas's call as he leaned in close to whisper, “Demon lore says that wraiths are the severed shadows of the dead.”
Petra tried very hard not to let her skepticism show. “So… ghosts?”
Does Silas talk to ghosts, or does he just have a very persistent imaginary friend? I’m not sure which possibility worries me more.
