Page 40 of Silas

Itistoo much.

I felt his huge hard body behind me, and I felt sheltered. I felt…

Safe.

I cannot fathom what thoughts or feelings consumed him in the moments before he fled from me. I don’t understand what I did wrong, why he felt like he had to get away from me. I was sitting as still as I could, when all I wanted was to lean back and give him my weight.

Feel his arms around me.

I dream of being hugged. My father, sometimes. My mother, usually. I only vaguely recall her face or the soft strength in her arms as she hugged me. I crave it. I hate waking up and returning to reality—being thrust back into the brutality of my real life. In my dreams, Papa is kind. In my dreams, he doesn’t beat me or break my bones, doesn’t hate me for reasons I have never and can never understand. In my dreams, Mama is alive.

In my dreams, the darkest, most sinful, most awful and tempting ones, Papa is the one who died. It would be just Mama and me, alone in the world. Perhaps we’d be hungry, or even homeless. But we’d have each other and she would never hurt me. She’d hug me and hold me and tell me she loved me.

And then I wake up, broken and battered and in agony before I’ve even opened my eyes.

For a moment or two, while Silas was brushing my hair, I caught a glimpse at a false, lovely future, at a fantasy that will never be real: Silas, and me, together. He’d brush my hair after my shower, and I wouldn’t need a robe. My naked body would press against his. His hands would graze my skin. His heat would warm my flesh. Perhaps his touch would wander—and I’d let it.

I’d welcome it.

Tears prick my eyes and sting my nose, so potent is my longing for that fantasy.

I breathe through it, banishing the silly desires from my breast. It’s not real. That’s not for me.

I can’t allow myself the indulgence of wanting it. Of wantinghim.

He’s helping me because under the rough, brutal exterior he’s actually quite kind and good. Nothing more.

I scan the room for belongings, but there’s little enough to be forgotten. My new brush is in my hand. I’m wearing my only clothes. There’s a plastic shopping bag full of snacks, and that’s it.

I move to the door and find Silas leaning casually against the wall opposite the doorway. A big black pistol is in his right hand, a magazine in his left; he’s checking the load as I emerge, and taps it back home before sliding the weapon into his waistband at the small of his back.

He says nothing, even as his gaze flickers over me, taking in my braided hair, my wrinkled clothing, and my bare feet. Pushing away from the wall, he heads for the lobby. We stop by the desk, where he checks out with a few terse sentences, and then we load up in his car.

Moments later, we’re on the road.

His fist grips the wheel, his other strangling the shifter. His jaw pulses, and his brow is furrowed.

I swallow a lump of fear and touch the knuckles of his hand on the shifter. “What’s wrong, Silas? Please tell me.”

He shakes his head. “Can’t.”

“Why not?”

He glances at me. “Best if you don’t know.”

I can’t stop disappointment from knifing through me, from registering before I can hide it. “All right, Silas. I understand.”

He sees it, however. “Don’t do that,” he snaps.

“Do what?” I ask, genuinely puzzled.

“Accept whatever I say without question.”

“If you won’t tell me, I can’t make you. And I don’t want to upset you further by arguing with you.” I can’t stop the flood of truth from escaping my throat. “You’re already being so kind and generous with me. I don’t deserve your kindness, but I suppose I’m selfish enough to want it, and cowardly enough to accept it.”

He swivels his head to stare at me. “Fuck that, Naomi. That’s bullshit.”

“I…what?” I have to fight the urge to shy away from the venom in his voice.