Those girls have nothing on the March sisters,” Silas says, leaning in so close that I can feel his breath on my shoulder. A strange shiny feeling ripples through me and I wheel toward him, accidently ramming my shopping basket into Silas’s side. A few Ace bandages toppled to the floor and the girls looked up from their polish dilemma to snicker at me. Nice one, Rosie. I can feel the blush starting as I duck to grab the bandages, and when my hand brushes against Silas’s leg, the heat spreads down my neck. Calm down. It’s just Silas. I rise and force a smile that I hope doesn’t look as goofy as I suspect.
Jackson PearceSilas nods toward the green crosswalk sign and lightly places his hand on the small of my back to urge me forward. The touch sends shivers up my spine and the woozy feeling takes over. Walk, Rosie, walk. Don’t be stupid.
Silas points several blocks away as we arrive on the opposite curb. “I can give you a ride home, if you don’t mind waiting for a few hours. I’ve got to go see the power company getting my lights turned back on.”
“I, um . . .” Sit with Silas for a few hours in the power company office? And then for another half hour on the ride home? I want to. I really, really want to. But what will we talk about? How long will it take me to start giggling like a moron? I can lure a Fenris—sway my hips, giggle lustily, bat my eyelashes—but I have no idea how not to look like a bumbling idiot in front of Silas Reynolds.
How about we go through the festival once before picking a spot?”
“Why?” I ask.
“Because I enjoy apples,” he replies. Rosie giggles. “Because then we can go if there’s a spot that would be particularly easy to grab a girl from,” he answers again, voice serious this time.
We’ll go out tomorrow morning, then. First thing,” she ventures, more to Silas than me. “Though how the hell are we supposed to hunt? The Fenris certainly can’t see my face, and he’ll recognize Rosie. We’ve got no bait, unless you think you’ll look pretty in a dress, Silas.”
“Okay, one, I would look great in a dress,” Silas begins. He turns to lean against the bathroom door, seemingly forgetting that I’m still in a towel. When he sees me, he averts his eyes and flushes a little. “And two,” he continues in a forced voice, “you’ve been luring Fenris on your own for pages, Scarlett. The Apple Time Festival is tomorrow. Perfect place for a Fenris to hang out, even if you don’t take into account all the red people will be wearing. We’ll go there.”
Scarlett nods curtly. No one moves for a few minutes as water continues to trickle off my back and onto the shower floor. Finally, Scarlett gives me another cold look, turns on her heel, and storms down the hall.
“Sorry I got you in trouble,” Silas whispers guiltily, his voice the only sound other than the steady pattering of water hitting the tile floor. “I was worried about you when you took off, and then I realized it was probably your first solo . . .”
I shake my head. “I had to tell her eventually.”
“For what it’s worth,” he says, eyes still averted respectfully, “I thought you did great.”
“Thanks, Silas.” He finally meets my eyes, keeping his gaze firmly on my face. I tug the towel a little tighter.
“You’re welcome. And I’m sorry for barging in. I didn’t . . . um, see anything. I promise.
Silas refuses to help us cage Screwtape, who hisses loudly, having long suspected something is up. I go to pick him up, trying to act like everything is normal, but Screwtape darts away. It’d probably be easier to crate a Fenris than it is to crate Screwtape. The dance repeats until Scarlett and I are red in the face and Silas is laughing at us. We finally run the cat down, and Scarlett manages to toss the laundry basket over him when he’s too busy anticipating his next dash.
“We could still leave him,” Silas jokes—I think he’s joking, anyway—as we load the howling backseat of his car. Scarlett looks as though she might feel the same way as she nurses a batch of claw marks on top of the thicker Fenris scars. She climbs into the backseat of the car as Silas and I slide into the front. Silas hot-wires the ignition of the hatchback and pounds on the radio for a few minutes before it buzzes to life.
“We can’t change the station, by the way,” he says.
“Because you really like pop music?” I ask, wrinkling my nose as a bubbly song blares at us.
“Not hardly,” Silas says. “I hate it. But last time I changed it, the car stopped. Oh, and lean away from your door—sometimes it opens randomly.
“Um . . . great,” I say, leaning as far away from the door as possible. But this feels even more dangerous, because I’m leaning incredibly close to Silas, so close that I’m hyperaware of the fact that my sister is right behind me. My stomach twists as it fights my body’s urge to fall against him. I shudder and try to shake the desire off.
Silas nods and turns to back the car up, accidently brushing a hand against my shoulders as he does so.
“Sorry,” he says under his breath, like he’s whispering in church. I shake my head as Scarlett settles her long arms and legs in the backseat and uses her cloak as a blanket.
Still trying to lean somewhere between the door of death and Silas’s shoulder, I stare out the window as we lumber out of town. The road is smooth, hypnotic, with the dotted lines vanishing rhythmically before us. I glance back at my sister. She’s fallen asleep, and Screwtape is casting her dark looks, as if she’s to blame for his predicament.
I looked toward Silas, trying to appear as if I’m just glancing out his window. Really, I want to study him intensely. He’s wearing one of his many nearly threadbare T-shirts, jeans that are soft from washing, wavy hair . . . Everything about him begs to be touched . . .
“You’re nervous,” Silas says suddenly.
“What? No!” I answer sharply. Am I that obvious?
Silas raises an eyebrow and laughs.
“It makes sense. I mean, you and Lett have lived in Ellison forever.” Right . . . right. He’s talking about the trip, not my resisting the temptation to fall on him. We’re silent for a moment, nearly tangible awkwardness floating around the front seats. Silas drums his fingers on the steering wheel.
Do you . . .” I begin, then turn around to make sure Scarlett is really asleep, not just faking it—her chest rises and falls a different way when it’s genuine. Satisfied, I look back to Silas and choose my words carefully. “Do you think I’m a good hunter?”
Silas looks confused. “Of course. You and Lett are the best hunters I—”
“No, not me and Scarlett. Just me,” I say.
Silas slows the car a tad to look at me. “Yes. Yes, of course. You’re—pardon my language—you’re fucking deadly with a knife, Rosie.”
I smile and shake my head, remembering all the times Silas scolded his older brothers for throwing language around in front of my “virgin ears.” It’s sort of satisfying to know that his perspective has changed. “Right,” I say. “I mean, we hunt together. But Scarlett . . . it’s like a part of her soul.”
“Dramatic much?” Silas teases, but he frowns when I don’t laugh.
“You know what I mean. It drives her.”
“But not you?”
“I don’t know. I mean, maybe. It doesn’t matter. I owe Scarlett my life, you know?”
“Yeah, but . . . like I told your sister, that doesn’t mean she’s got you locked in a cage forever. Unless you want to be locked in a cage, I mean. Wait, that sounds weird.” Silas shakes his head and sighs. “I’m forever tripping on words with you, Rosie.”
“I have that effect on people,” I joke, but Silas’s face stays serious as he nods slightly. I grin nervously.
I hurry back to the apartment, wondering how long I’ve been gone. I push the door open, then promptly drop the frozen peas.
Silas grins at me, shirtless, slightly toned chest glimmering in the sunlight pouring in through the dirty windows. His pants are slung wantonly low on his hips, and I can’t help thinking about the drawings I left behind, the way non-Silas’s abs looked nearly identical to real Silas’s, and therefore everything might look identical . . . My face flushes and I exhale shakily.
I’m sorry, Rosie,” Silas says when he sees the sadness in my eyes. I shake my head, trying to brush the look away, but Silas isn’t easily deterred. He hesitates, then leans on the counter beside me, moving slowly as if he needs verification that each move is acceptable, wanted.
“Hey,” he says, resting two fingers on my arm. It starts as a friendly gesture. I press my lips together as he slides his palm up my arm and around his shoulders. Silas paused, and though I’m not certain, I think he realizes that the touch is far more friendly as well—a thought that makes me dizzy but practically forces me to move my own hand to the small of his back. I close my eyes and inhale, and I feel Silas’s breath on my forehead, hear his relaxed heartbeats. His lips are so close to me, I could easily tilt my head back and kiss him if I were braver. It’s hard to not sigh, like the exhausted breath is building up in my chest and I’m holding it back, though more than anything I want to release it, to truly hold myself against him—
Scarlett’s shower cuts off. Silas snatches his arm away and I lean back up, head swirling from the quick change.
“Um . . . right,” Silas says, looking startled. He looks at me. “Okay, back to studying Potentials, wolves, important stuff . . .” He shakes his head as if he’s casting away a mental fog.
I bite my lip. I want to get out of here—I need to get out of here, or the thumping desire for Silas is going to consume me. There’s no way Scarlett won’t figure it out if I can’t escape and get my mind off him. It’s just for a little while—I can go get groceries or something. Silas will help her research. We can’t keep paying for Chinese food. I meet Silas’s eyes, dashes of sky color in the monotone apartment.
“I’ll be back,” I say, then dart for the door.
“Wait!” he whispers sharply. He lunges toward the couch and tosses me the belt with my knives on it. “Just in case.” I catch it with one hand and swing it around my waist. Silas gives me a sly smile—does he know the affect that smile has on me?
Come on. Let’s go get coffee, get your mind off it,” Silas says soothingly as I begin to take my frustration out on the bag of bread, violently twisting the end of the plastic into a knot.
“I don’t like coffee,” I grumble without looking at him. Silas reaches forward and puts his hands over mine. Goose bumps erupt on my arms.
He raises his eyebrows, voice gentle. “You can get chocolate milk, then. But let’s get out of here before you bend the entire loaf in half.”
I sigh and look at him. Funny how he can go from being “just Silas” to Silas in a matter of seconds. I release the bread and follow him out the door, my frustration and the flutter feeling fighting for control of me.
The diner Silas takes me to is just a few blocks away, a dingy but classic-looking place with black and white tile and red neon signs blinking things such as “Apple Pie!” and “Specialty Hash Browns!” We slide into a booth, and a waitress who is missing several teeth grins at us and asks us for our order.
“Just a cup of coffee for me. You, Rosie?”
“Chocolate milk,” I reply with a snide look at Silas. He laughs and the waitress hurries away. Then, silence. Silas rearranges the salt and pepper shakers, and I pretend to read a piece of paper outlining the history of the diner. Right.
“So,” I blurt out, a little louder than I meant to, “I guess you didn’t get much time at home, did you? Back from California and now stuck here with us?” Is my voice shaking? I think my voice is shaking.
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