Chapter 12
OAKLEY
I’m losing patience with my dad, and it makes me feel like the worst son on the planet.
We went back to Wimberley for hours of debriefing and setting up times for post-op interviews over the next few days. We were all too exhausted to drive back into Austin, so we headed to the guest dorms in the Shed.
I purposefully waited till my cousins had left the locker room so I could jerk off in the shower in peace. Which was a good thing, considering I came so hard I almost lost my footing. Twice.
Seeing Sy in action made me want to find the nearest tree and fuck him against it.
I didn’t want to examine that too closely last night. I still don’t.
Anyway, after my embarrassing display in the showers, I was looking forward to crashing out. Just as my head hit the pillow, though, my fathers called. They probably hadn’t opened an ops report in twenty years. I should have realized they’d make an exception for this one.
Obviously, it was incredibly sweet of them to check on me, and I didn’t mind. Except I’d been hyperaware that bringing up Sy would set Dad off. I’m used to that—or should be at this point—but last night it really pissed me off.
For fuck’s sake, Sy saved my life, yet I dare not tell my fathers how much that meant to me. Worse, I understand the psychology of it all and can’t really get mad at Dad for how he feels.
So, I’m sleep deprived, still kinda horny, and mad. With no one to be mad at.
Doctor, heal thyself.
Despite that frustration, working with Hedy this morning on the back end of an operation gone wrong has been far more instructive than all the footage I’ve studied of operations going exactly to plan.
Hedy’s overall strategy is to position the team against the problem and dig into what we could do to avoid it in the future.
When Sy mentioned my concerns with the Hell_AI app, Hedy and Jake took them seriously and asked me several thoughtful follow-up questions.
We’ll know more once the Wimberley nerds process the body cams and the evidence we gathered, but for now, Hedy has suspended all operations stemming from the app.
She ended this morning’s debrief by reminding everyone that I would be meeting with each of them individually over the next few days, and the team seemed to appreciate that.
That said, Hedy’s final aside to me about Silas raised my hackles.
“I’m interested to see what intel you’ll gather in the one-on-one with Silas. Our baby psycho can be a tough one to draw out in the team debrief.”
I’ve shared with her that Silas isn’t technically a psychopath, though I’m holding his ASD diagnosis close to the vest for now. That she’s still using the terminology casually annoys me, even though I kept my mouth shut.
Which is…not great. If my motivations were purely ethical, I’d have said something right away.
Amelia would be laughing so hard at me right now.
Fuuuck.
This is deeply inconvenient on so many levels.
I’d always read Silas’s long-simmering crush as sexual curiosity, on his part.
Not specifically something for me to consider.
This morning, when Hedy asked me how I felt about being involved in that firefight, I used very professional language.
“I was distressed and concerned for my life. I’m definitely not built for violent encounters.”
All true.
Yet entirely incomplete.
I was distressed because watching Silas kill turned me on. Seeing him drenched in that man’s blood made me want to put my tongue down his throat.
I was concerned for my life for all of three seconds until I realized the bad guys had no chance of getting one over on Silas. He would do whatever it took to get me home safe.
And while I am certainly not built for violence, Silas most assuredly is. There’s an artistry, a potent madness to the way he kills. Last night, with bullets flying overhead and Sy’s brilliant madness on full display, my nipples hardened to the point of chafing.
Which led to a rabbit trail about nipple play and gentle sucking and whether or not Sy enjoys that sort of thing.
Silas drove last night, so this morning, I spend the ride into Austin sitting next to him while trying not to think about all the ways I want to consume him.
Drink him down, fill him up, drive him insane with my hands.
Mouth. Cock. Rough. Soft. Forcing him to come over and over until he’s begging me to stop. To continue. To fuck him hard.
God, I am so fucked in the head.
Worse, I don’t know if I care.
I manage to keep my hands to myself on the ride home and spend the day mostly in my room catching up on sleep and reading my favorite smut.
Saturday night, Hedy texts me.
Hedy: Have you completed Sy’s one-on-one?
Sorry, Aunt Hedy. I haven’t done that yet because I want to turn him out in the worst way.
Also, impatient much?
I don’t say that. Mostly because I’m beginning to realize Hedy is sensitive about her lack of formal clinical training. She’s a profiler, not a therapist. Given the fact that she’s been capably running mental support in Wimberley for over two decades, who am I to judge her approach?
Me: No. I’ve got that planned for tomorrow morning.
Hedy: Awesome. Let me know how it goes.
My alarm goes off at six forty-five, and I curse the promise I made last night. Thankfully, Sy’s an early riser, even on Sundays, and something tells me he won’t mind an unannounced visit if it’s me.
I make my way downstairs before the rest of the Wildlings are up. Let’s try to have a modicum of self-respect, shall we?
“Hey, Oak,” Silas says, opening the door to his dark apartment. He squints at the low light and pats his collar, where he usually keeps his tactical sunglasses.
Jesus, he’s perfect.
How did I not see that before?
Why did it take watching him kill for me to finally react appropriately to this level of hot?
Also, does he not understand how easy it is to read his expression, even with the minimal light coming in from the hallway? His eyes are practically glued to my mouth, and his slack jaw reads like the filthiest smut available.
Fuck. Me.
I was already struggling with the thought of keeping things professional. This is impossible.
“Hey, Sy,” I say, lowering my already deep voice to the basement. “May I come in?”
“Uh, sure,” he says, letting me into the cave-like entryway.
I’m subtle as I crowd him, tapping my fingers to my throat. “Would you mind terribly getting a glass of water for me?”
There’s a deeply ill part of me that watches his Adam’s apple like a fiend. It’ll bob ever so slightly before he breaks land-speed records to give me whatever I’ve asked for.
“Of course.”
I’m not imagining that he was a little breathless with his reply. He disappears into the dark shadows of his kitchen. Barely able to make out even his silhouette, my only cues are the sounds of opening and closing cabinets, water flowing from the faucet, and the squeak of it turning off.
I spin in place, realizing someone is missing.
“Where’s Cupcake?”
“Ant and Erik were in town yesterday and picked her up. Said she needed some refresher training.”
“So…time with their ‘granddaughter?’”
“Yep,” he says, handing me the glass of water.
I brush my fingers across his as I accept the glass. He watches as I touch it to my lips and swallow. Then gulps as if he’s swallowing with me.
“Does that mean you’ll be heading out soon?”
“What, to pick her up? No. Rami’s still in Wimberley. He’s gonna grab her on his way back in this morning.”
How did I not notice that Rami stayed in Wimberley?
Because you’re in the middle of a sexual crisis.
“Oh, that’s cool.”
He watches my throat as I take another sip.
“I’ve actually come down to do the post-operation follow-up,” I say, then realize… “Should I wait until Cupcake is back?”
“Nah.” He waves away my concern while tracking my hand as I wipe the moisture from my lips. “It’s the regular stuff that freaks me out. The operations are my happy place. I don’t mind talking about it.”
His eyes shift to the ground as he gestures for me to join him in the living room.
I set aside the glass and make my way into the pitch-black space. There are no windows in his condo. When he moved in, Silas told us he prefers it this way. I’m pretty sure he actually needs it this way.
He reaches out in the darkness and hits a switch on the wall. Salt lamps come to life, their meager illumination more atmospheric than practical. His icy eyes and dark tattoos take on an otherworldly aspect in the orangey glow.
There are other light sources in the apartment, but I’d rather deal with the low light than have him put on those dark sunglasses.
I’m a sucker for his eyes.
Silas has lived in the building for over a year, but this is my first time down here.
As my eyes adjust, the walls come alive with art.
Movie posters, local artists, and some of Uncle Hopper’s pieces.
The placement is beautiful, perfectly straight, perfectly spaced, and almost utterly unreadable from more than a foot away.
I pause in front of what looks to be an original piece of two men embracing. One significantly larger than the other.
I startle as Silas steps in next to me.
“That’s my favorite one,” he says softly.
“It’s beautiful.” Keeping my eyes forward, I verify, “You keep it dark in here because the light actually hurts your eyes, right?”
I feel like I should already understand the mechanics of his photosensitivity. I turn to tell him so and instead suck in a sharp breath. Silas looks as though he’s been brushed by candlelight, his icy blues shining preternaturally in the dark.
Stunning.
“I get headaches. Pretty bad ones if I don’t get a break from the light.”
“Are the headaches a result of your genetic mods?” I ask, then step back. “I’m sorry. If you don’t wanna talk about it…”
“I don’t mind.” He looks up at me with a funny little grin. “And yes. Though the headaches are the least worrying side effect of the genetic manipulation.”
I swallow hard, wondering if I dare push him for more information.