“This is fancy,” I tease, settling into one of the chairs. “Wine, candlelight, home cooking. What's the occasion?”
He pours wine into two glasses without meeting my eyes. “Can't a man cook for a beautiful woman without an ulterior motive?”
His tone is off. Usually when Silas flirts, there's heat behind it, that dangerous edge that makes my pulse quicken. Tonight he sounds almost... careful. Nervous, even.
I lean forward, letting my fingers trail along the stem of my wine glass. “Since when do you do anything without an ulterior motive?”
That gets a small smile, but it doesn't reach his eyes. He turns back to the stove, and I study the line of his shoulders,the tension in his movements as he plates whatever he's been making.
“Chicken marsala,” he announces, setting the dish in front of me. “Hope you're hungry.”
The smell alone is enough to make me moan. When I take the first bite, I have to close my eyes—it's perfectly cooked, the sauce rich and complex.
“Jesus, Silas. This is incredible.” I take another bite, savoring it. “Where did you learn to cook like this?”
He shrugs, cutting into his own portion with mechanical precision. “You learn when you've got no one else to rely on. When it's cook or starve.”
There's a rawness in those words, a glimpse into whatever shaped him before the carnival, before me. I want to push, to ask more, but the careful way he's avoiding my gaze tells me now isn't the time.
We eat in relative silence, the atmosphere growing heavier with each passing minute. I try to lighten the mood with small talk about the show, about Cole's terrible jokes, about anything that might break whatever spell has settled over us. But Silas responds with distracted hums and one-word answers.
When we're finished, he pours more wine and finally looks directly at me. “Nova, I found some information.”
My fork freezes halfway to my mouth. A cold dread settles in my chest, spreading outward like spilled ice water. “Information?”
“About you.”
Fight or flight kicks in hard and fast. My pulse spikes hard, and I have to fight the urge to bolt for the door. Instead, I set down my fork with deliberate calm and lean back in my chair.
“What kind of information?”
“You're married.”
The words land before I'm ready for them. I feel the blood drain from my face, feel my hands start to shake. “I?—”
“To Roman Miller.” His voice is gentle, but there's steel underneath. “What happened, Nova?”
Every defensive instinct I've honed over the years slams into place. I stand abruptly, nearly knocking over my wine glass. “That's none of your fucking business.”
“It is when he might come looking for you. When you're running scared and?—”
“I'm not running scared.” The lie tastes bitter on my tongue. “And I don't need you digging into my past like some kind of stalker.”
“I want to help you.”
“I don't need your help!” The words come out sharper than I intended, but I can't take them back now. Can't open that door, can't let him see how broken I really am underneath all the attitude and bravado.
Silas stands too, and suddenly the trailer feels impossibly small. “Maybe you don't. But you've got it anyway.”
“Why? Because we fucked a few times? Because you think that gives you some kind of ownership over me?”
His jaw clenches. “Because someone hurt you. Because you flinch when people touch you without warning. Because you keep looking over your shoulder.”
Heat floods my cheeks. He's been watching me that closely? Studying me like I'm some kind of case study?
“You want to know why I don't answer your questions?” I step closer, using anger to mask the fear clawing at my throat. “Because every time someone gets too close, every time I let my guard down, I end up bleeding. So excuse me for not being eager to bare my soul to you just because you can make me come.”
A dangerous gleam flickers in his eyes. “Is that what you think this is? Just sex?”
