“He’s joking,” she says brightly. “And clearly not remembering our conversation about sarcasm.”
“Right,” he murmurs, though his tone suggests he’s not fully registering anything. “A joke.”
There’s something in the way he says it that makes it clear he doesn’t mind being misunderstood.
My hand lifts before I can talk myself out of it. His fingers close around mine almost immediately.
The contrast is jarring. His skin is warm and rough, calloused in a way that speaks of impact and friction. The shake isn’t polite. It’s firm, bordering on harsh. His grip tightens slightly. Before I can react, he tugs just enough to draw me a half-step closer.
There’s no mistaking the intention.
My balance shifts toward him. His other hand remains at his side, but the proximity alone is enough to make the air between us feel thinner.
He forces a smile onto his face, the expression not reaching his eyes.
“I look forward to joining your lovely family,” he says evenly.
The sarcasm is obvious.
So is the resentment beneath it.
My pulse pounds in my ears. Something about the way he holds my gaze makes it impossible to look away. His eyes are darker up close. Not empty. Not cold. Just guarded so tightly it reads as hostility.
“I’m sure,” I reply, tugging my hand free from his grip. “St. Augustine loves offering us their strays.”
The words leave my mouth before I fully consider them.
“Octavia!” my dad snaps immediately. “That’s enough.”
But Silas doesn’t bristle. He doesn’t lash out.
Instead, his lips curve slightly, revealing sharp canines in a smirk that feels more amused than offended.
“It’s fine, Jacob,” he says calmly, never looking away from me. “Good to know she has a little bite.”
The way he says it shifts something in my stomach.
Not anger.
Recognition.
He steps past me then, brushing close enough that the heat of him lingers for a fraction too long. His shoulder nearly grazes mine as he reaches down to grab the duffel bag from the floor.
Once the bag is slung over his shoulder, he finally looks away from me completely, glancing toward the staircase.
“Do you mind if I settle in?” he asks, tone neutral again, as if the exchange between us never happened.
But my skin still feels aware of where his hand had been.
“Not at all,” my mom says brightly, as if the last few minutes weren’t edged with tension. “I need to get dinner started, and Octavia should probably make sure her friends head home.Their moms want them back before your little study date tonight.”
The word study date lingers in the air with playful emphasis.
Silas gives a short, humorless scoff. “Study date,” he repeats, glancing at me from the corner of his eye. “What a thrill.”
There’s no effort to hide his suspicion.
Narrowing my eyes at him without thinking, I hold his gaze longer than is polite. Something about the way he says it feels pointed, like he’s testing how easily I’ll react.
