Chapter 13 Evie
EVIE
“I’m sorry,” Tempest starts, but I hold up a hand, cutting her off.
“Don’t worry about it,” I breathe, forcing a smile. Everything she said is true—but it’s not like I can tell them that. This is a room full of sharks. Showing them my bleeding wounds will only get me killed faster.
I let my eyes drift past the kitchen to the living room, where the rest of them are sprawled across the couch.
Mavros—the one with the bear tattoo—is here, along with the sloth guy, Noctis.
Adrian, Dominic, and Bane are crammed together on the cushions, while Erik lingers in the kitchen near Tempest, like he always is.
He leans slightly in front of her, as if expecting me to snap.
I wonder if they’ve ever dated, but then my gaze lands on the broody, six-foot-four asshole before me—Silas, with the snake at his throat, ink covering his arms and fingers—I doubt he’d ever approve of his little sister and best friend hooking up.
Silas’s dark hair is tousled, a smudge of gold paint streaking through it.
I flash back to the stacked canvases in his room from the first day, when I’d mistaken it for Tempest’s, and wonder what he’s painted today.
Does he prefer realism? Capturing quiet, beautiful details others overlook?
From the glimpses I’ve caught, I think he prefers impressionism, letting color flow and emotions bleed freely.
I almost ask him. But then I meet his eyes to find his pupils blown wide, and the chiseled planes of his body coiled like a cobra prepared to strike.
“Is my little sister right, Evie?” Silas asks.
“Don’t,” Tempest snaps, but he doesn’t look away.
They’re watching, all of them already knowing the answer.
Frustration rises in my throat. If I dodge the question, it’ll only drag this moment out.
I should’ve waited until they were gone to come back, but I had nowhere else to go.
So, I lift my chin and stare into Silas’s deep green eyes, before fixating on the forgotten splash of cobalt paint across his cheek.
“I am a virgin,” I say. There’s no point in lying. I’m not ashamed—not of that. What makes my cheeks flush and heat creep down my neck is the fact that it’s never truly been my choice. Not really. Not when my family controlled every part of my life.
“My body is the only thing of value I can offer,” I add, watching as the veins along Silas’s forearms flex.
The flicker of curiosity in his gaze morphs into fury.
And for a second, I almost let myself believe he cares.
“At least, that’s what I was told. Being loud was the worst sin a girl could commit. ”
I meant to keep going, to pretend I’m unfazed by his anger, by Tempest’s sharp breath, but haunted memories slash through my mind. Jonathan’s hand on my thigh at lunch, his slimy fingers gripping me under the table while calmly discussing who my future husband will be with my parents.
All the while, Mother’s voice rings out, criticizing my dress, my hair, my weight.
I’m a disappointment. A doll not quite pretty enough.
A failed investment. And suddenly it’s too much—all of it.
My fucked-up childhood. The gnawing guilt tied to beliefs I don’t even agree with anymore.
The aching need to appease a god I still want to believe in, even as I claw at every barb of patriarchal control embedded in my soul.
And something inside me just… snaps.
“Nobody wants to hear what I think or how I feel. My dreams don’t matter.
What I want to do, who I want to be—who I am—doesn’t matter.
” A hysteric edge clings to my voice, and I don’t know why I’m spilling all this to a room full of strangers, but if I don’t get the words out, I’m going to scream.
And if I start, I’m afraid I’ll never stop.
“Evie,” Tempest says gently, stepping closer. When I don’t shy away, she wraps her arms around me, holding tight as soundless tears track down my cheeks.
“You do matter,” she murmurs. “That’s all I was saying. I just don’t want them to be a bunch of dickwads to you.”
A harsh laugh scrapes from my throat as she draws back.
“Tempest is right,” Erik adds as the others rise from the couch to join us. “We mean well, but each of us has our own… vice.”
The one with dark skin and striking blue eyes—Dominic—brushes a finger over the inside of his wrist, drawing my gaze to the tattoo there: the head of a demonic goat with long ears and spiraling ram horns, set before the number seven.
“That we do,” he says, flashing a sinful smile. “I’ve never been great at controlling my lust.”
Tempest rolls her eyes. “Dominic is always thinking with his dick.”
“Hey,” Dominic protests, half-hearted. “It’s a real struggle sometimes.”
“Don’t act like you don’t love it.” The guy next to him chuckles. He has dark hair, tanned skin, and a strong nose—the one with the orange hellhound if I remember correctly.
“You’re one to talk, Bane,” says the one on Dominic’s other side. His golden eyes gleam beneath a tangle of thick russet hair. “Gluttonous to the end, this one. But I can’t judge. I’m pretty greedy myself.”
Laughter hums through the group and I smile along, knowing they’re referencing the Seven. But even as the reminder stirs tendrils of fear in my gut, I refuse to make this night more awkward than it already is.
“Quit it, Adrian,” Tempest says, shooting a glare his way.
Adrian holds up his hands in placation, pale skin splashed with freckles, covered in tattoos. “What about you, Erik? Anything you’re proud of lately, or just your reflection?”
“I am fucking gorgeous.” Erik preens, pulling out his phone and snapping a selfie as the others laugh.
“Ignore them,” Tempest mutters, stepping in front of me and turning her back on the group. “Want a drink?”
Alcohol wasn’t allowed in my house growing up. I once caught my mother pouring a generous glass of red wine before a church event. She claimed it was left over from service—Christ’s blood was fine to consume, so long as she asked for forgiveness.
“Beer, please.”
Silas huffs, shaking his head like I’ve said the most predictable thing imaginable. My cheeks heat as Tempest twists the cap off a brown bottle with a colorful artisan label and offers it to me.
“Something funny?” I ask, my tone clipped.
Silas raises a dark brow, eyes gleaming with challenge as he watches me accept the beer. “You don’t drink.”
“Yes, I do.” My blush deepens as I glare at him, hating the certainty in his voice. “I drank last weekend.”
“You had one shot.”
“Two,” I snap back.
“This is different.” He smirks. “You don’t even like beer.”
“Why would I ask for one if I didn’t?” I narrow my eyes, the audacity of him igniting something sharp in me. “In fact, this is my favorite kind of beer. Thank you, Tempest.”
“It’s nothing,” she says, offering a smile, but there’s a crease between her brows as she looks between the two of us.
She knows last weekend was the first time I ever had a drink, but I can’t admit that to Silas, not when he’s staring at me with that smug grin plastered across his stupidly perfect face.
Silas glides across the kitchen, closing the distance between us in a few long strides. I straighten my spine and glare up at him.
“You’re a rule-abiding, skirt-wearing, domesticated little fox who doesn’t have the first clue what life is like without Mommy and Daddy to protect you,” he says. “You’ve never had a drink in your life, let alone porter brewed in a whiskey barrel.”
Biting the inside of my cheek, I force the sheen of tears not to fall.
I hate that I cry when I’m angry. Hate that Silas sees exactly what everyone else does: a spoiled, sheltered girl with the perfect family and perfect upbringing.
I’m not a real person to Silas, the Seven, or even to my own family.
Just a puppet, dressed and pressed into an obedient servant.
Mother confirmed everything Jonathan said.
I have until the end of this semester to enjoy my life. One semester to experience everything I want before they lock me up again. No time to waste, right?
Holding Silas’s gaze, I lift the bottle to my lips and take a long sip.
Notes of bittersweet chocolate and malty vanilla roll over my tongue, mingling with the bite of alcohol that lingers at the back of my throat.
It warms me, the heat smooth and sweet as I swallow.
I lick my lips, savoring hints of toffee.
And Silas’s eyes dip, tracking my tongue with an emotion I can’t quite place.
Anger… or something darker. Something wanting.
“Delicious,” I breathe, watching a flicker of desire spark behind his eyes. Is he remembering the kiss we shared? Is he imagining me pressed against the alley wall, his fingers tangled in my hair, knee shoved between my thighs as he fucked my mouth with his tongue?
He must be, because he’s looking at me with want and need and… the openness in his gaze ices over with cool detachment. It’s only then I realize I’m leaning toward him. Pulse racing, I jerk back, bumping into the counter.
“Okay, Evie,” Erik says, nodding at me as he tugs Tempest against him. “I see you.”
Tempest laughs softly, her attention shifting to Erik’s playful touches as he leads her toward the couch with the others. But Silas’s gaze stays locked on me.
“How was it?” he asks, studying me like he would a game, anticipating my next move.
“Fine,” I answer, gripping the bottle tighter. “Like I said, it’s my favorite.”
Lie. And judging by the smug little grin tugging at his mouth, he knows it. But what really pisses me off is the look of triumph in his stupid, glinting eyes.
“You don’t know anything about me or my perfect life,” I snap. “Tossing back drinks and riding motorcycles doesn’t make you tough.”
Something shifts between us—something slow and coiled, like a python wrapping around a sleeping mouse. By the time the mouse realizes the pressure isn’t comfort, but death—it’s too late. I feel like that mouse as Silas watches every trace of emotion flicker across my face.
“Careful, little fox,” he murmurs, lips twitching. “That almost sounds like you’re asking for a ride.”
My pulse spikes, heat searing through me from the look in his eyes.
I know exactly what he means—and god help me, I want to know what sex with someone like him would be like.
There wouldn’t be a white dress or diamond ring.
No sweet kisses or promises of forever. I was taught to expect a quiet softness…
but what would it be like to lean into the chaos?
Would it be so wrong to yield to that twisted part of myself?
The one that yearns to taste the forbidden embers of hell?
The same cursed piece of my soul that finds release in the sharp bite of a blade across my skin.
Would Silas cut me? If I asked him nicely and was a good girl, would he lick the blood that welled beneath his knife?
My thighs clench as desire coils low in my stomach, a gnawing ache I’ve never been able to quench. I bet Silas knows how to satiate me. I’d bet my soul he could take me apart, delivering me to hell’s gates on a platter and leave me begging for more.
Silas’s shoulders go rigid, and for a split second, I worry I’ve spoken my forbidden fantasies aloud. His pupils are blown, nearly eclipsing the green rings as he holds me there, transfixed. But before I can do something incredibly stupid, Tempest is there.
“On second thought,” she says, glancing between us, “let’s go out.”