Page 115 of The Blood we Crave

His love lived there in those deep brown irises.

And now, well.

Now, she’s dead, and so are his eyes.

“Sorry, I’m not really paying attention.” I breathe out heavily. “I’m feeling a little…”

“In your head?” he finishes for me, and I nod with a grim smile.

“Know any good ways to fix that?”

“You think if I did, I’d be in here?”

I laugh, even though it’s not exactly funny, but I enjoy his dry humor. It’s a pleasant change of pace.

“Fair point.” I chew the inside of my cheek, the question I’ve been wanting to ask since I arrived weighing heavy on my tongue.

It’s selfish of me to ask. To travel all the way up here, just to make him feel like I’m using him for information. But he feels like my last hope.

“Can I ask you a question, Silas?”

“Sure.” He leans back in the chair, crossing his arms in front of his chest. “Don’t be offended if I don’t answer.”

Now or never, right?

“Do you—” I swallow. “Do you know where Thatcher is? Or where he might go if he needs to get away from Ponderosa Springs?”

Silas’s face doesn’t move. It gives no indication of a response; he just sits there and stares at me. It’s so difficult to read him, similar to Thatcher but different.

Thatcher is hard to read because he doesn’t feel the same way others do, so he doesn’t have the same reactions you’d think to look for. Silas though, he feels—he just hides it. A blank wall that doesn’t let anything in, and nothing comes out.

So I just sit there, studying his prominent brow, the slope of his strong nose, the dark freckles on his light brown skin. Unmoving and unyielding. And I think, maybe the reason he doesn’t speak often is because he’s trying to read me too.

“No.”

One syllable. One singular word. The only answer I’m going to get from him regarding his friend.

I nod, looking down at the chessboard. My chest throbs, hope dying inside of me, knowing I’ll just have to wait until Thatcher comes back from where he is.

If he comes back.

“Why do you want to know?” Silas’s voice is even, genuinely curious.

“Because I—”

The words die on my lips. What would I even say?

Because I’m his stalker and can’t find him?

Because I’m obsessed with your best friend and have been since we were kids?

Because I love him?

They are all responses, but none of them are good enough to speak out loud. Every one of them feels so trivial. I don’t think there are actual words out there that could explain the craving in my soul for Thatcher.

“Just because.”

I pick up my knight, moving it forward, avoiding Silas’s earlier checkmate by blocking his queen. Content with continuing our game and sitting in silence like we normally do.