“Isn't it?”
We're standing inches apart now, the air between us crackling with tension. Sexual, yes, but threaded through with a feeling I trust even less—the kind that makes you want to stay.
That scares me more than Roman ever did.
“Let me tell you something about getting close to people,” Silas says, his voice low and rough. “I know what it's like to have your trust betrayed by the people who should protect you. I know what it's like to run, to hide, to build walls so high nobody can climb them.”
I want to step back, to put distance between us, but my feet won't move.
“I was born into a cult called the Sanctum of Ash. Spent the first part of my life being tortured and brainwashed by monsters who called themselves Prophets. My brothers and I escaped, but barely. And now we're hunting them down, one by one. Making them pay for what they did to us and every other child who suffered in that place.”
The words hit me like a sledgehammer. I stare at him, suddenly seeing him differently—the careful control, the protective instincts, the way he touches me like I'm precious and fragile at the same time.
“Silas...” My voice comes out as a whisper. “That's terrible. I'm so sorry.”
“I don't want your pity. I want your trust. I want you to stop shutting me out every time I try to get close.”
“You could have asked,” I say weakly. “Instead of investigating me like a suspect.”
“I did ask. Multiple times. You deflected every single question with jokes or sex or by walking away.”
He's right, and we both know it. I've been playing games since the moment I arrived, keeping him at arm's length even while letting him tie me up and make me scream his name.
“What else did you find?” The question slips out before I can stop it.
“Hospital records. Roman Miller was admitted to Phoenix General a month ago with severe internal bleeding. Trauma to the abdomen consistent with a rigging spike.”
My breath catches. “He's alive?”
“You sound surprised.”
“I—” I press a hand to my chest, trying to calm my racing heart. “I wasn't sure. I hoped... God, I hoped they hadn't saved him.”
Silas's expression darkens. “He hurt you.”
It's not a question, but I nod anyway. The words stick in my throat, years of shame and self-doubt making it impossible to speak.
“What did he do to you, baby?”
The endearment breaks something loose inside me. The tears I've been holding back spill over, and I wrap my arms around myself like I can hold all the broken pieces together.
“Everything,” I whisper. “He did everything to me. And I stayed. For twelve fucking years, I stayed and let him because I was fifteen and alone and I thought—I thought it was love.”
Silas moves closer, his hands hovering near my shoulders like he wants to touch me but isn't sure if I'll let him.
“The night I left, he was drunk. More drunk than usual. He backhanded me so hard I ended up on the ground and then yanked me up by my hair—” I touch my scalp reflexively, remembering the tearing sensation. “I had already found the rigging spike when I fell and I just... I wanted him to stop. I wanted it all to stop.”
“You defended yourself.”
“I thought I killed him.” The words come out flat, matter-of-fact. “I drove that spike into his gut, and I hoped he would bleed out on the trailer floor. What does that make me?”
“Human.”
I look up at him, expecting to see judgment or disgust. Instead, his eyes are blazing with rage—not at me, but for me.
“If he ever comes looking for you,” Silas says, his voice deadly quiet, “if he ever so much as thinks about putting his hands on you again, he'll wish he'd stayed the fuck away.”
The promise in his voice sends a shiver through me. Not fear, but something else entirely. Relief, maybe. Or hope.
