Page 50 of Top Shelf

Silas still doesn’t speak, but his gaze never wavers, telling me he’s listening to every word.

“I want answers. But I’m scared of them.” My voice cracks. “I’ve spent so long convincing myself that I was right. That you were the monsters in the dark. But what if I was wrong?”

He steps into me then, forcing me to crane my neck to look into his face. We’re both wet from the rain. I can feel the water running down my face, although his remains dry beneath his hood. His eyes are shadowed as he looks down at me. Still, he says nothing. Normally, that would annoy me, but for some reason, it only makes me open up more. I’m spilling secrets I haven’t even dared to admit to myself.

“I can’t keep doing this,” I tell him, voice barely audible above the rain hitting gravel. “Not knowing. Not trusting myself.”

As though moving in slow motion, he reaches out and gently—so gently—cups my cheek.

My breath stutters.

His hand is cold. His touch, careful. Delicate.

I meet his eyes, searching them for… What, I don’t know.

My breath is trapped in my chest, the pressure building with each passing second, because in those eyes, I don’t see guilt. I don’t see denial.

I see pain.

I see longing.

I see something that makes my knees go weak.

He shifts closer, his hand still on my face, the heat of his palm warming my cold cheek. What distance there was between us vanishes. I could trace the sharp lines of his jaw. Notice the faint scar tucked beneath his bottom lip, like a secret the rest of the world never gets close enough to see.

The rain falls harder now, soaking through our clothes, but neither of us moves.

Silas watches me with the kind of focus that makes it difficult to breathe. My heart thunders, and it’s not fear—at least notonlyfear. It’s something more complicated, more dangerous.Temptation.

His hand shifts, not away, but inward. He brushes a strand of wet hair from my cheek, tucking it behind my ear with slow, deliberate care. His fingertips skim my jaw, and I swear a trail of lightning follows the touch, heat warming my cool flesh.

Another breath, and he lifts his hand again, this time to brush away a raindrop trembling at the tip of my nose. He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t speak. Just moves with quiet intention,like I’m something breakable and he doesn’t want to be the one who shatters me.

I feel it then, deep in my chest. Not an answer or absolution, but…something.

A feeling.

A question.

A truth that terrifies me more than any memory.

Because in this moment, held steady beneath his touch, I don’t feel hunted.

I feelseen.

And I don’t know what to do with that.

Silas’s hand drops slowly from my face, but instead of stepping away, he reaches for me. His fingers are cold, damp from the rain, but they wrap around mine gently. He turns my palm up and stares at it for a long second, his fingers brushing lightly over the skin. Then, with the pad of his index finger, he starts tracing something.

A small circle.

Then a straight line beneath it.

Finally, a crescent moon.

He keeps drawing it, over and over, like muscle memory. Like a ritual. I don’t understand what it is at first, not until I realize—it’s an anchor. A crude one. Childlike in shape, but unmistakable.

I blink.