“They’re called doormen,” he says with a faint smile, but the amusement fades quickly. “I pay you double what most assistants in Manhattan make. Move somewhere else.”
“I’m saving that money.” I pull out my keys, but before I canunlock the door, Silas steps forward and pushes it open, the old thing swinging inward without resistance.
“You see what I mean?” He gestures at the door, frowning. “I don’t want you living here.”
I roll my eyes, but something about the way he’s looking at me catches me off guard. Since when does he care where I live or what happens to me?
“See you tomorrow,” I say, stepping inside, but he follows me to the stairs. I stop and glare at him, daring him to take another step.
“Let me see you get into that hamster house,” he says, smirking as he gestures toward the narrow staircase.
As we climb, the sounds of the building envelop us—kids screaming, dogs barking, the muffled noise of TVs, and arguments leaking through the thin walls. Of course, today of all days, it sounds like a zoo in here.
At my door, Silas places his hand on the doorframe, and for a second, I’m hit with a memory—his hand against the wall, pinning me in place the day he kissed me at the library. My face flushes again. I need to get a grip if I want to keep working for this man. “Thanks,” I mutter, staring at the floor. I can feel his eyes on me, and when I glance up, I see that damn smile of his.
He leans down, his hand slipping under my chin, forcing me to meet his gaze. “One day, I’m getting you out of here, whether you like it or not,” he says softly, but with a seriousness that cuts through the playful banter.
“I don’t need rescuing,” I say, trying to sound firm, even though my pulse quickens.
“I know,” he says, smiling again, “the rescue’s for me.”
Back Then- Willow High School
English is the only class I have with Silas, and even then, he usually sits in the back, so I hardly see him until the bell rings. But that doesn't mean I don’t notice him. It’s like I can feel his eyes on me the whole time, this prickling awareness I can’t shake. Ever since what happened at his house, he’s gotten a lot meaner—not just with me, but with everyone. He’s already been in detention twice this week. He’s covered my locker in weird rabbit pictures, slashed my bike tires, and there’s this graffiti on the wall—lips and a tongue. At least there aren’t any rumors about how kissing me is like kissing a brick, or if there are, I haven’t heard them yet, like he promised.
I keep thinking about that kiss. How he ruined it. My first one. How he held my face so I couldn’t pull away, his tongue pushing into my mouth. It was the best and worst first kiss. Worst because I didn't choose it. Best because ... well, now I know what it’s like. How he tastes. What it’s like when Silas takes control. And every time I remember it, I have to squeeze my thighs just to calm myself down.
“Good morning, class!” Ms. Bell’s voice pulls me back. “I’m excited because this week we’re starting a new project.” She drops a stack of notebooks on her desk, her hands on her hips as she scans the room. “Today, we’re beginning our writing journey.”
The usual groans follow. No one seems thrilled except me. I don’t show it though. No need to give Silas more reasons to mess with me.
Last year, I won the school contest with a poem about the planet. I know it sounds boring, but it was about raising awareness, like a letter from the Earth to humans asking them to stop destroying it.
“This year, we’re changing things up,” Ms. Bell says, pacing a little. The class shifts uncomfortably in their seats. “We’ll be working on dialogue structure, and I want to see creativity. Think outside the box!”
Dialogue? I’ve got ideas, but I keep them to myself. No need to draw attention.
“And,” she adds, “you’ll be working in pairs.” She smiles like she’s just announced something great. “I’ll be choosing the pairs at random,and the best one will have their dialogue performed at the talent show! Isn’t that exciting? It was the drama teacher’s idea, and I think it’s brilliant.”
Pairs? Great. I hate working in groups.
Ms. Bell sits down and starts calling out names like she’s delivering bad news. “Mary Colver with Matt Simons.” They laugh and throw a crumpled note at each other.
“Silas Walker ...” she scans the room, and I feel myself tense, staring at the pencil in my hands. “With Lauren Green.”
My stomach drops. Laughter ripples through the room.
This cannot be happening.
Silas
During dinner with my brothers, I’m distracted. Damn Lauren and that linden tea. I can’t shake the image of her setting it down in front of me as if something so simple, so routine, could stir me up this much.
Growing up, I was taught to handle things myself. My parents believed in “Do it yourself” so strongly that asking for help was practically a sin. Homework? On my own. Struggles? Deal with it.
Alone.
Maybe that’s why I always craved Lauren’s attention back in school, and now that I finally have it, it feels strange.
