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I don’t know what version of Silas stands behind me. The man who was so consumed by his lust for me, the man who’s tortured by the fact that he desires me. The frosty mask he wears when he wants to establish the lines he’s drawn in the sand, boxes around us labeled employee and employer.
I think . . . I think that might push me over the edge. I’ve been balancing on a tightrope of emotion since I got home. My lids sink in a slow, labored blink at the word home. It’s such an inconsequential word, only four letters long. And yet, it houses the biggest pool of emotion. Love, longing, acceptance, and joy are all wrapped around the concept of home. And without conscious thought, I’d foolishly started to think of this as home. Not Magnolia Lane. Them.
"Evie," he murmurs.
He squeezes my heart with his fist when he says my name like that. Like it's a prayer falling from his perfect mouth. But in between his fingers is barbed wire, and it sinks deeply into the softness inside of me. It shreds and sears every inch that it touches.
And I realize with heartbreaking clarity that I have been irrevocably changed in the last week. And I . . . I don’t know how to go back to who I was before. There’s been another rift in my timeline, another event that signals before and after.
But perhaps I’m not the only one changed. This could be yet another new version of Silas, and perhaps, it’s the most deadly of all. I don’t understand it, and I don’t trust it.
More importantly, I don't trust myself with him.
Restlessness hums underneath my skin, the pulsating energy that grows with each moment I’m still. And yet, I can’t bring myself to move.
I clear my throat and keep my gaze firmly on the backyard. It’s the middle of the night, so it should be pitch black. But the spotlights make it look like a park playground, bright yellow circles of light shining strategically all over the property.
“It’s late, Silas.”
“What are you doing awake?” There’s no reproach in his tone. It’s soft and almost tender. It’s disarming.
I swallow roughly. “I couldn’t sleep.”
I feel him then, like he's parting the very molecules of air as he crosses the kitchen. The space between us heats up, charged and churning by the constant push and pull. His breath ghosts along the back of my neck, stirring the hair that's fallen from my messy bun.
“I’m sorry, Evie. I shouldn’t have been so harsh with you before,” he murmurs.
My shoulders tense at his proximity, but I barely breathe, afraid I’m going to spook him into leaving. “It’s fine.”
“It’s not fine, baby. I—” He exhales sharply, cutting himself off and stepping into me. “What you did, getting Hunter and Ma out of here like that, I just . . . thank you.”
“I didn’t do it for you.” Uncertainty keeps my voice low, weighing it down like a lead balloon.
“I know—I know that.” He exhales and places his palms on the counter on either side of me. ”But that should’ve been the first thing I said. I should’ve said it a hundred times. I can’t—I don’t know how—I’m ill-equipped, Evie. I don’t know how to thank you properly. I should’ve gotten on my knees in gratitude.”
My traitorous heart skips inside my chest as he cages me against the sink. Citrus and bergamot surround me, and I hate the way my body seems to sigh with relief. Like the very scent of him is enough to ease something restless inside of me.
He rests his forehead against the place where the top of my spine meets the bottom of my neck, like his head is too heavy to hold up. There's something so intimate about the move, like I am his pillar to lean on when he's weary. It's such a tender gesture, so unlike the versions of him I've encountered before.
“And I am so fucking grateful, Evie,” he murmurs, his breath warming my spine. “I’m forever indebted to you for shielding my boy. For protecting him the way you did.” He pauses, swallowing audibly. “The way a mother protects her child.”
I suck in a sharp breath, his words a direct hit. Tears fill my eyes and my fingertips press tightly against the counter, grounding me.
He inhales, like he's preparing himself for something. "I'm an idiot and an asshole, and I don't fucking deserve your forgiveness. But I'm asking for it all the same. In five days or five years from now. However long it takes for me to earn it, I'll do it willingly."
“What am I forgiving? The way you treated me in the garage? The way you stretched the truth about where Hunter is? Or how about your tendency to decide you want me one day and want nothing to with me the next? What do you even want from me, Silas?” By the end, I’m nearly pleading.
His nose skims the line from my shoulder to my ear, his lips halting beside my earlobe. “Everything, Evie. I want everything from you.”
My heart stutters inside my chest. “And what about you? What do I get from you?”
He traces the edge of my ear with his tongue. “You can have every inch of my shriveled black heart, baby. Whatever’s left of my soul, every good thing about me is yours.”
I spin around then, the urge to see his expression too much for me to bear. My heart feels like it’s floating somewhere in my throat. “What are you saying?”
“I’m saying I’m fucking yours. I have been since the moment I saw you in those ridiculous pink cowboy boots.”
“Those were Nana Jo’s boots,” I mumble.
