Page 22 of Envy
“Iamfucking gorgeous.” Erik preens, pulling out his phone and snapping a selfie as the others laugh.
“Ignore them,” Tempest mutters, stepping in front of me and turning her back on the group. “Want a drink?”
Alcohol wasn’t allowed in my house growing up. I once caught my mother pouring a generous glass of red wine before a church event. She claimed it was left over from service—Christ’s blood was fine to consume, so long as she asked for forgiveness.
“Beer, please.”
Silas huffs, shaking his head like I’ve said the most predictable thing imaginable. My cheeks heat as Tempest twists the cap off a brown bottle with a colorful artisan label and offers it to me.
“Something funny?” I ask, my tone clipped.
Silas raises a dark brow, eyes gleaming with challenge as he watches me accept the beer. “You don’t drink.”
“Yes, I do.” My blush deepens as I glare at him, hating the certainty in his voice. “I drank last weekend.”
“You had one shot.”
“Two,” I snap back.
“This is different.” He smirks. “You don’t even like beer.”
“Why would I ask for one if I didn’t?” I narrow my eyes, theaudacity of him igniting something sharp in me. “In fact, this is my favorite kind of beer. Thank you, Tempest.”
“It’s nothing,” she says, offering a smile, but there’s a crease between her brows as she looks between the two of us. She knows last weekend was the first time I ever had a drink, but I can’t admit that to Silas, not when he’s staring at me with that smug grin plastered across his stupidly perfect face.
Silas glides across the kitchen, closing the distance between us in a few long strides. I straighten my spine and glare up at him.
“You’re a rule-abiding, skirt-wearing, domesticated little fox who doesn’t have the first clue what life is like without Mommy and Daddy to protect you,” he says. “You’ve never had a drink in your life, let alone porter brewed in a whiskey barrel.”
Biting the inside of my cheek, I force the sheen of tears not to fall. I hate that I cry when I’m angry. Hate that Silas sees exactly what everyone else does: a spoiled, sheltered girl with the perfect family and perfect upbringing. I’m not a real person to Silas, the Seven, or even to my own family. Just a puppet, dressed and pressed into an obedient servant.
Mother confirmed everything Jonathan said.
I have until the end of this semester to enjoy my life. One semester to experience everything I want before they lock me up again. No time to waste, right?
Holding Silas’s gaze, I lift the bottle to my lips and take a long sip. Notes of bittersweet chocolate and malty vanilla roll over my tongue, mingling with the bite of alcohol that lingers at the back of my throat. It warms me, the heat smooth and sweet as I swallow. I lick my lips, savoring hints of toffee. And Silas’s eyes dip, tracking my tongue with an emotion I can’t quite place. Anger… or something darker. Somethingwanting.
“Delicious,” I breathe, watching a flicker of desire spark behind his eyes. Is he remembering the kiss we shared? Is he imagining me pressed against the alley wall, his fingers tangledin my hair, knee shoved between my thighs as he fucked my mouth with his tongue?
He must be, because he’s looking at me with want and need and… the openness in his gaze ices over with cool detachment. It’s only then I realize I’m leaning toward him. Pulse racing, I jerk back, bumping into the counter.
“Okay, Evie,” Erik says, nodding at me as he tugs Tempest against him. “I see you.”
Tempest laughs softly, her attention shifting to Erik’s playful touches as he leads her toward the couch with the others. But Silas’s gaze stays locked on me.
“How was it?” he asks, studying me like he would a game, anticipating my next move.
“Fine,” I answer, gripping the bottle tighter. “Like I said, it’s my favorite.”
Lie.And judging by the smug little grin tugging at his mouth, he knows it. But what really pisses me off is the look of triumph in his stupid, glinting eyes.
“You don’t know anything about me or myperfectlife,” I snap. “Tossing back drinks and riding motorcycles doesn’t make you tough.”
Something shifts between us—something slow and coiled, like a python wrapping around a sleeping mouse. By the time the mouse realizes the pressure isn’t comfort, but death—it’s too late. I feel like that mouse as Silas watches every trace of emotion flicker across my face.
“Careful, little fox,” he murmurs, lips twitching. “That almost sounds like you’re asking for a ride.”
My pulse spikes, heat searing through me from the look in his eyes. I know exactly what he means—and god help me, Iwantto know what sex with someone like him would be like. There wouldn’t be a white dress or diamond ring. No sweet kisses or promises of forever. I was taught to expect a quiet softness… but what would it be like to lean into the chaos?