Page 33

A fter my professor completed his full analysis of my final project, I was allowed to take it home. The massive canvas feels like a thousand pounds as I carry it through the Manor and up the creaking staircase to the attic.

Five months. Five months of absolute lamenting over this fucking project just to receive a high B.

A high B.

Tragic doesn’t even begin to cover it.

The painting is a culmination of sleepless nights, of dreams I barely managed to drag into reality, and now it feels like a failure.

By the time I reach the attic, I’m already picturing the first brushstroke that will erase this mess. I’ll paint over it—maybe turn it into something else, or maybe just leave it blank, a monument to wasted effort.

I push the door open, and the smells of my paints and supplies waft past my nose. The boys have allowed me to use this room as a studio for a few months now. It took me an entire week to get rid of the dust.

There’s a soft noise on the other side of the room, and my head tilts as I move toward the sound.

Silas crouches near an open trunk, his broad shoulders tense as he pulls something out. A pair of cleats dangle from his hand, the laces frayed and stained with dried mud. He stares at them for a long moment before setting them aside. Then he pulls out a jersey, the number thirty-one on the back, his lucky number.

For a man who always seems larger than life—Silas, the enforcer, the protector, the one who never falters—in this moment, looks… small.

I hesitate in the doorway, unsure if I should disturb him. The canvas digs into my palm, the edges biting into my skin.

“Silas?”

He pauses but doesn’t look up. “Didn’t know anyone else was home yet.”

“What are you doing?”

“Packing,” he says simply, though there’s no conviction in his tone.

I step closer, lowering the canvas to lean against the wall. “Packing for what?”

“Just clearing out old stuff.” His words are clipped, his focus still on the trunk. He folds the jersey with a kind of precision that feels ritualistic.

I sit down on a nearby chest, watching as he sifts through the contents of the trunk. “You don’t have to get rid of it,” I say after a moment.

“I’ll never use it again. Doesn’t need to take up space in the closet.”

But it’s not just about space in the closet. It’s about the space it takes up in him—the version of himself he was so desperate to hold onto.

“You don’t have to lock this stuff away like you’re ashamed,” I offer, leaning forward to rest my elbows on my knees.

He lets out a sharp, humorless laugh, shaking his head. “You don’t get it, Sable. I used to be the king—captain of the team, four-year starter, big shot on campus… And now? Now they want me to be a fucking team manager. The guy who tapes ankles and hands out water bottles.”

“There’s nothing wrong with being a manager.”

“It’s not the same.”

I don’t respond immediately. How can I? How can I explain to him that I get it more than he thinks?

Back in high school, when I decided to stop competing with him and pursue my art, he was so excited to have his thing. Something that wasn’t a shadow of me. We were pitted against each other constantly—rivals even when we didn’t want to be.

When he started playing lacrosse, it was like watching him finally breathe. He had his own spotlight, his own space to thrive. And he was brilliant at it. The way he moved on the field, the way he commanded attention. It was everything to him.

And then it was ruined.

I saw the video once. Just once. The one he never talks about. I wish I hadn’t because now I can’t unsee it. The way his shoulder twisted, the sound that came from the crowd of his body hitting the ground, the immediate grimace of pain on his face. It wasn’t just an injury, it was the end of something.

“That life wasn’t stolen from you. It’s still part of you, even if it’s not what you thought it’d be.”

He turns to look at me then, his dark eyes clouded with something I can’t quite name. Grief, maybe. Or something heavier.

“It doesn’t feel like it.”

Silas sits back on his heels, his hands resting on his thighs as he stares at the trunk. “It’s not just the lacrosse thing,” he admits after a moment. “It’s everything. The frat, the Syndicate, all of it. I’m supposed to be the guy who holds it together, you know? The one who keeps everyone safe.”

“And you do.”

He shakes his head, a bitter smile tugging at his lips. “Do I? Because it feels like I’m barely keeping my head above water. And every time I think I’ve got a grip on things, something else comes along to knock me down.

“I’m scared, Sable… I’m scared of failing. Of not being enough. Of letting everyone down.”

I reach out, placing a hand on his arm. His muscles are tense under my touch, but he doesn’t pull away.

“You haven’t failed.”

“I’ve always been a failure. To my father. To you…”

“To me?” I ask, a knot forming in my chest. I don’t understand. I don’t see him as a failure.

He nods slowly, almost to himself, as if the words are spilling out before he can stop them. “I should have never made you feel like you were less than.”

“You never have.”

His lips tighten into a thin line, and his eyes dart away from mine, avoiding the truth I’m trying to offer him. “Don’t try to undermine it. Yes. I did. I spent my entire childhood proving to you why I was better at everything you did. It was always a competition. I made it into one. And every time you succeeded—every time you were better than me at something—I couldn’t stand it. So I pushed harder, made sure I was the one on top.”

I never realized how deep the rivalry went, how much he carried it with him. I’ve always seen him as this confident, unstoppable force, but now I’m starting to understand the insecurity behind it all.

“You weren’t better at everything. You were better at some things, maybe, but I wasn’t… I never thought you were doing anything maliciously. We were just kids. Trying to appease our parents. I never actually tried to do anything better than you.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Oh really? Because I seem to remember you giving me a run for my money in that fifth grade science fair. You didn’t think that was a competition?”

“Yeah, well, you can’t really count that. You only won because you made your volcano explode, and mine just fizzed. You put some sort of firework in your volcano, so it exploded.”

His lips twitch into a reluctant smile. “Baking soda is child’s play. You really needed to level up your game.”

“Right,” I reply dryly. “You were suspended for a week because you almost set the gymnasium on fire.”

For a moment, neither of us speaks. And in that silence, something shifts. A soft smile curls across his lips. “I love you, Little Devil.”

“I love you, Silas.”