Page 16

SIXTEEN

SILAS

I stalk down the hallway, fury coursing through my veins, each step echoing with the rhythm of my rage. A fucking B. How dare my Econ professor give me a B on my latest paper? Unacceptable. It’s an insult I don’t plan to tolerate. Kai will fix it—he always does. Once that’s taken care of, I’ll move on to my weekly dinner with my father, pretending everything is under control. But right now, control is the last thing I feel.

Turning the corner toward Kai’s room, I catch the faint sound of voices—a low murmur—and one of them is distinctly feminine. Sable. Suspicion claws at my chest, a cold, bitter feeling that quickly morphs into something far darker.

Has she finally left Dayton’s room? I should’ve ripped that door off its hinges and dragged her out myself the second I knew she was in there. All the other guys said it “wouldn’t have helped anything,” but I know better.

What the fuck do they know about dealing with someone like Sable?

She doesn’t bend to soft hands.

She needs to be controlled.

My hand curls around the doorknob, the slight nudge of my palm enough to turn it. I peer through the narrow crack, expecting to see Kai alone, maybe fucking around with whatever he does when he’s not pissing me off. But the sight that greets me instead stops me cold.

Sable is pinned against the wall, Kai’s hand wrapped possessively around her throat, his lips devouring hers. For a second, my brain short-circuits, and all I can do is watch.

Rage ignites within me, burning white hot.

How dare he?

How dare she?

My hands clench into fists, the muscles in my arms straining against the need to break something. Her. Him. Both of them. But I don’t move. Not yet. I force myself to wait, seething, every second an agonizing test of my control. Sable stumbles out of his room a few moments later, dazed, not even noticing me as she slips back into Dayton’s room. She’s too wrapped up in whatever that kiss did to her to realize she’s just made the worst mistake of her life.

I count to ten—slowly, painfully—fighting the inferno inside me. Then I shove the door open, stepping into Kai’s room with all the subtlety of a predator ready to kill.

Kai doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t even look surprised. He glances up, leaning against his desk, calm as ever, as if he’s been expecting me. The corner of his mouth lifts in that infuriating smirk. “What do you want, Si?” His voice is casual, bored, but there’s amusement in his eyes that makes me want to wipe the grin off his face.

I cross the room in three long strides, closing the distance between us until I’m inches from him, my body vibrating with barely contained fury. “What the fuck was that?”

He raises an eyebrow, unflinching. “What do you think?”

“She’s not some toy for you to play with,” I spit, the words like venom on my tongue. The thought of his hands on her, of her letting him—it makes me sick.

“Oh, so she’s your toy, then? Hate to break it to you, but Dayton’s already had his turn with your precious toy.”

My teeth grind together so hard I can feel my jaw tightening painfully.

“Does it really matter?”

“Should we share her?” The words come out faster than my brain processes. Share her? Like she’s just another girl to pass around between us? My mind flashes back to the last time we tried this—Vicky. What a disaster that had been. “Have I lost my fucking mind?”

“Look, Silas. We’ve done this before. It didn’t work. Levi’s jealousy almost tore us apart. But maybe this time, with Sable, it could be different.”

Sharing—what a fucking disaster that has been for us. The last time we tried it, with Vicky, it nearly tore us apart. She started off as Dayton and my girl. She was nasty as they came, and we enjoyed it. But she wanted all of us. So, she sunk her teeth into Kai so hard, he became so obsessed. Levi then became obsessed, possessive in a way that scared even me. Vicky barely made it out before Levi’s rage consumed her. And us.

That was a line we weren’t going to cross again.

Heads turn as I pull up to the valet stand in my Aston Martin, tires screeching slightly as I come to a halt. The valet, a scrawny kid who looks like he’s barely old enough to drive, stares wide-eyed at the car, clearly intimidated by the sheer power of it. I step out, my suit jacket brushing against the sleek metallic paint, and toss the keys in his direction.

“Don’t scratch it,” I warn. The kid fumbles, nodding as if his life depends on it before quickly hopping into the driver’s seat. He’s probably praying he doesn’t stall it.

I make my way through the grand entrance, I feel the eyes on me. Not because I’m Silas Morgan, but because I’m Deacon Morgan’s son. At Ashen Grove, that name carries weight. Too much weight, sometimes. The maitre d’ spots me immediately, giving a respectful nod before leading me to our usual table by the window. My father, always punctual, is already seated, studying the wine list as if it were a contract negotiation. His presence demands attention—a man whose aura swallows the room whole.

When he stands, he is even taller than me by a few inches. His physique is well maintained even as he approaches his late fifties. His hair, once the same rich brown as mine, is now flecked with silver, but still cut in a no-nonsense style. His sleeves are rolled up just enough to reveal the tattoo we share—or rather, the one I will share when the time comes.

A scorpion.

The symbol every member of Delta Sigma Nu earns in their senior year, a reminder that our brotherhood extends far beyond these walls. Levi already got his. I’ll get mine this spring. It’s not just a tattoo; it’s a mark of the legacy we’re expected to uphold. A legacy that’s been drummed into me from the moment I could walk.

“Silas,” he greets without looking up, his voice a mere formality. No warmth. No acknowledgment of me as a son, just an extension of himself.

“Father,” I reply, slipping into the seat opposite him. I unfold the napkin into my lap, my movements as precise as the waiter who fills my glass with an expensive red I can’t even bother to identify. It’s always the best. That’s all that matters.

We exchange a few pleasantries about the restaurant, the weather—things that don’t matter, because what we’re really doing is biding time. Biding time before we inevitably cross into territory we both want to avoid but know we must. It’s a delicate, rehearsed dance, one I’ve performed my whole life.

Eventually, my father sets down his glass with a deliberate motion, fixing me with his piercing gaze. “I heard you lost your scholarship, Silas.” His tone is demeaning, each word dripping with disappointment. “And you failed to tell.”

I roll my shoulders and swallow the lump in my throat. “When you shatter your rotator cuff and it has to be completely rebuilt, the coach doesn’t want you on the field,” I say, keeping my voice steady.

His eyes narrow, studying me like I’m a puzzle he’s already solved but finds disappointing. “So, what are you doing to pay your tuition? I haven’t received a bill.”

I meet his gaze head-on. “You won’t receive one,” I respond, the bitterness creeping into my voice. “I’m taking care of it.”

“And how exactly are you managing that?”

I lean back, taking a measured sip of wine, stalling. The taste is rich, velvety, but it feels like ashes in my mouth. “I’ve found other means to cover it,” I say, my tone clipped. “Don’t worry about it.”

He scoffs, waving a dismissive hand as if my words are nothing more than an inconvenience. “I’ll just write them a check.”

Anger flares inside me, rising fast and hot, pushing me to the edge. Before I can stop myself, my fist slams onto the table, rattling the silverware and drawing the attention of nearby diners. Their whispers swirl around us, but I couldn’t care less.

“No,” I growl. “I don’t want your fucking money, Dad.”

“Don’t you dare squander this opportunity, Silas. Four generations of Morgans have walked through those halls. Your damned pride is going to ruin everything we’ve built.”

The eyes of the nearby diners still flickering our way before turning back to their own conversations. I know what he’s doing—he’s reminding me I’m just a piece in a much larger game. A game where failure isn’t an option.

Finally, he breaks the tension, his tone shifting as if we hadn’t just exchanged blows. “How’s Sable?”

The question catches me off guard. “She’s fine,” I answer shortly, unwilling to delve into that particular topic.

“Diane mentioned she’s staying at The Manor. Care to elaborate?”

“That would be true,” I admit, reluctantly. “But it’s nothing you need to worry about.”

“You know the syndicate is dealing with the murders.”

Dad talks about the society we are a part of, like we are old friends. I don’t know much about them, except for the fact that they don’t have a set jurisdiction. The syndicate is everywhere, with reach as far as the eye can see. The normal justice system can’t really touch us elite, and only when someone truly gets out of line does the syndicate have to come in.

Kai’s uncle and dad are employed by them.

My father just knows of them.

Sable’s dad’s killer was assassinated by them.

His gaze lingers on me, sharp and calculating, like he’s assessing my involvement with Sable in the same way he would evaluate a business deal. But then, sensing my unwillingness to discuss it further, he shifts topics. “How’s your arm?”

“It’s healing,” I reply, moving my shoulder slightly. “Recovery’s been slow, but it’s steady.” What I don’t tell him is that I’ve skipped my physical therapy appointments. The gym does enough. I can deal with the rest on my own.

He nods, accepting my answer before steering the conversation toward what really matters to him. “The business is thriving,” he says, a note of pride creeping into his voice. “Several new contracts this quarter. The board is pleased, and so am I.”

“That’s good to hear,” I respond, though my enthusiasm is lukewarm at best. I know what’s coming next.

“I’m holding a position on the board for you. You’ll take it next spring. It’s a coveted spot, Silas—one many would kill for.”

My stomach twists at the thought. The board seat has always been the elephant in the room, the unspoken future that’s been looming over me since I could walk. “I appreciate the opportunity,” I say carefully, “but I’m not sure I’m ready for that responsibility yet.”

“What would you do instead? Don’t tell me you are still trying to chase some silly little dream of following Dayton in lacrosse.” That funny little dream was quickly snuffed out with my accident. “You know Dayton will be handling his father’s affairs next spring. All these professional leagues can continue to scout him, but he needs to make his intentions clear.”

“I know,”

“Everything I’ve done is for you. You will not embarrass me.”

We finish the meal in strained silence, the clinking of silverware and murmurs of nearby diners filling the uncomfortable void. When the check comes, my father, as always, insists on paying. We part with a handshake—firm, cold, impersonal.

“Take care, Silas.”

“You, too, Father.”