Page 63 of Silas

“Nothing.”

Her silence is telling. I risk looking up, meeting her eyes. Her expression tells me she doesn’t believe me, but she’s too conditioned against expressing herself to say so.

“You can tell me,” she says, eventually. “Whatever it is.”

How can I tell her that I’m wildly, desperately attracted to her? That her soft voice and beautiful face and lush, slender curves inhabit every fiber of my being, that the very thought of sliding my hands over her perfect skin and hearing her quiet whimpers makes my cock throb and my balls ache? I can’t tell her that. Not after what she’s been through. Not after being sold off to a man twice her age. I can only assume when she said the phrase “marital duties” she meant rape, although I doubt that specific word will have occurred to her.

“I just…” It’s my turn to give a half-shrug, “I like holding your hand too,” I finish.

How fucking lame. Jesus.

“You…you do?” She sounds downright shocked.

“Yes,” I say, with a bemused chuckle. “I do.”

“But…why?”

I stare at her. “Jesus, Naomi. What do you mean, why?”

She stares back. “Well…when you hold my hand, I feel…safe. It comforts me. It makes me feel like you…” Her voice drops to a barely audible whisper. “Like you actually…care. About…me.” She shakes her head. “I can’t imagine someone as strong and brave as you would ever need to feel comforted or…or…” She trails off. “I don’t know. I just…I don’t know.”

Thoughts, emotions, responses…a million of each coruscate through me in a chaotic, confusing kaleidoscope.

“It’s…it makes me feel…” I huff, struggling not so much to find the right words as to allow myself to express them. “I guess comforted is a pretty good word. There hasn’t been a whole hell of a lot of comfort in my life, emotionally speaking. It’s nice to feel…I dunno. Connected to someone?”

She nods. “I understand what you mean.”

“Never been much of a hand-holder,” I say, unsure what’s driving the dump of vulnerable truth. “In fact, I don’t know if I’ve ever just…held hands like this.”

“Really?” Her tone is surprised. “Me either.”

A yawn shoots through me, exhaustion dragging at me. “Fuck, I’m tired.”

Her eyes are tender and soft. “Sleep, Silas.”

“You’re not tired yet, huh?”

She shakes her head. “I slept a long time in the car.”

“You can turn on the TV if you want,” I say. “Won’t keep me up.”

“It won’t? Are you sure?”

I nod. “I’m sure.”

I don’t want to let go of her hand. I want to pull her into my arms and kiss her breathless. I want to strip her naked and worship at the altar of her body. I want to make her come a thousand times before I ever let her touch me, just to prove to her that not all men are like her…everything inside me shrinks away from calling that fucking pig her husband. That wasn’t a marriage, it was ownership. She was no more to him than a sex slave.

I squeeze my eyes shut and shake my head to dismiss the thoughts.

“What, Silas? Please tell me.” She turns to face me, her knee pressing into my thigh. She leans closer to me, her soft body against mine—it’s intoxicating, and it takes everything I have to not pull her onto my lap.

“I just…” I trail off, shaking my head. “I don’t know how to say it, Naomi.”

“Why not?”

“It’s complicated.”

“You don’t think I can handle it,” she says; it’s a statement, not a question.