Page 19 of Where Your Scars Meet Mine
“I’ll let them know,” I say evenly, forcing my tone back under control.
My dad claps his hands together once, eager to keep things moving. “Why don’t you show Silas his room,” he suggests, smiling in that hopeful way he uses when he wants everything to fall neatly into place. “And once you’re both settled, come down and help your mother-”
He catches himself mid-sentence, glancing toward Silas.
“-Steph with dinner.”
The correction hangs there for a second.
Silas nods once, then offers my mom a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. It’s controlled...practiced.
“Thank you,” he says, voice lower now. “For everything.”
My mom beams at him, clearly soaking up the gratitude. “Of course, sweetheart. This is going to be good for everyone.”
The certainty in her voice feels almost fragile.
There’s no arguing with it without shattering something.
I step forward to lead the way toward the staircase, brushing past Silas in the narrow foyer. The air feels heavy again the moment we’re close. His shoulder nearly grazes mine as I pass.
Then his voice drops, low and close.
“So long as you stay the hell away from me.”
The words are quiet enough that my parents don’t react.
But they land like ice water down my spine.
My steps falter for a fraction of a second before I force them to continue. The banister is cool under my hand as I begin climbing, heart pounding harder than it should be.
Behind me, I feel him move.
When I glance back, he’s already watching me, eyes narrowed slightly as if assessing whether I’ll say anything. There’s no apology there. No humor.
Just warning.
He shifts his duffel bag higher on his shoulder and starts up the stairs without waiting for my response.
Disbelief swirls through me, sharp and disorienting.
Who exactly did my parents just invite into our home?
And why does the threat in his whisper feel less like hatred and more like self-preservation?
CHAPTER 4
Octavia
Silas doesn’t unpack. He doesn’t even unzip the bag.
He tosses it onto the bed like it’s temporary, like he’s staying in a place he doesn’t intend to memorize. The mattress dips under the weight, creaking faintly. Shoving his hands into his pockets, he slowly turns in a half circle, scanning the room with detached indifference.
There’s no curiosity in his expression. No gratitude. No relief.
If he feels any of those things, they’re buried too deep to reach.
“The bathroom’s down the hall,” I manage, hovering near the doorway instead of stepping fully inside. “We’ll have to… share it.”
