The implication sits heavy in the space between us as flustered irritation rises in my chest.
I hate that he can see it.
Shaking my head slowly, I narrow my eyes at him as if that alone can steady me.
“Don’t flatter yourself,” I say, quieter this time but sharper, throwing his own words back at him.
He doesn’t laugh. He doesn’t snap back. He just watches.
That steady, unreadable gaze follows me as I take a step toward the hallway. Out of the corner of my eye, I catch movement across from us. The crack in my bedroom door widens slightly, Cheyenne and Maria’s faces appearing in the sliver of space, eyes wide and shamelessly invested in every second of this exchange.
Of course they’re watching.
“I’ll leave you to it,” I say, trying to sound unaffected as I shift my weight toward the doorway.
The faint sound of him clearing his throat stops me before I can cross the threshold.
“Octavia.”
There’s something different in the way he says my name. Not mocking. Not playful. It’s lower, more firm, hooking into me before I can ignore it.
Pausing, I turn back.
He’s propped up now, resting on his elbows, forearms pressing into the mattress as he studies me with an intensity that feels less like teasing and more like warning.
“If you’re smart,” he says evenly, “you won’t try to figure me out.”
The air shifts.
The sarcasm is gone from his tone. What’s left is controlled and guarded, like he’s drawing a boundary I haven’t even tried to cross yet.
My hand lifts instinctively, fingertips brushing over the scar on my cheek. It’s a nervous habit I don’t realize I’m doing until I feel the slight ridge beneath my skin. His eyes follow the movement immediately, darkening as they settle on the mark.
“If you’re smart,” I reply, my voice lower now, “you’ll get the hell out of my house.”
There’s more behind those words than anger.
“I’ve dealt with your kind before,” I continue, dropping my hand from my face. “The scar was enough of a reminder.”
For the first time since he walked through the door, something in his expression shifts.
It’s subtle, but it’s there.
The cold detachment cracks just slightly, replaced by something sharper. Something that looks uncomfortably close to understanding.
I don’t give him the chance to respond.
The door closes between us with more force than I intend, the sound echoing down the hallway. My palm stays pressed against the wood for a second, my breathing uneven.
Across the hall, Cheyenne and Maria vanish from the doorway, no doubt scrambling to pretend they weren’t witnessing every painful second.
Behind me, there’s silence.
But the way he looked at my scar lingers in my mind longer than I want it to.
Cheyenne and Maria leave in a storm of curiosity and poorly disguised excitement. It takes far more effort than it should to get them out the door. They linger in the hallway, whispering and nudging each other, demanding details I don’t have and reactions I don’t fully understand myself. By the time I manage to push them toward the stairs, they’ve already built half a narrative around Silas without knowing anything real about him.
“Go to Kadin’s tonight,” Cheyenne insists, backing toward the door. “If nothing else, it’ll give you space.”
