Chapter 22 Silas
Silas
Her breathing slows against my chest, and the shaking stops. Her fists gripping my shirt loosen, finger by finger, until her hands rest there, small and warm against me.
She must have fallen asleep.
I keep stroking her hair because I don’t know how to stop.
My wolf and I are both content just to lie here with her weight against me.
She’s so small. I could hold her with one arm and barely notice.
But the feel of her, the reality of another person pressed against my body, trusting me enough to fall asleep.
That weighs more than anything I’ve ever carried.
I look down at the top of her head, at her brown hair falling across my chest, at the curve of her cheek, and the way her lashes rest against her skin. She looks softer when she sleeps. Her hard edges smooth out, and what’s left is just a girl—a girl who’s been alone for far too long.
My throat tightens with the familiar ache of the words that live inside me with nowhere to go.
I want to tell her she’s safe. I want to tell her I understand. I want to tell her that the nightmares don’t stop, but they do get quieter. I want to tell her about my mother’s laugh and my sister’s face.
But the words don’t come. They never do. They stopped the night the screaming started, and they never came back.
So I hold her. It’s all I know how to do.
I tilt my head back against the couch and close my eyes, just resting in the quiet with her warmth against me and her heartbeat steady under my hand.
Then she moves.
Her head lifts from my chest, and I look down, expecting to see her eyes still closed, expecting her to settle back in.
But she’s awake. Those blue eyes are looking up at me. We look at each other. No talking needed.
Her lips part like she’s about to say something—then she closes them. When she opens them again, I watch the war play out on her face, the push and pull of whatever she’s fighting inside herself.
“You’re my favorite,” she says.
My favorite.
Nobody has ever said that to me, not once. Not my mother, who loved all her children equally and made sure we knew it. Not my father. Not Darius or Archer or Elias, who are my brothers in every way that matters, but would never say something like that out loud.
I’ve been many things. Loyal. Useful. Dependable. The big one. The quiet one. The one you send in when you need something heavy moved.
But never anyone’s favorite.
Light filters in through a place that’s been sealed shut for a decade. My eyes sting. I blink it back because I don’t cry. Haven’t cried since I was eighteen years old, kneeling in my family’s blood.
I don’t have words for her. But the silence between us isn’t empty right now. It’s full—overflowing—and saying everything I can’t.
Then she reaches up.
Her hand touches my jaw. Lightly. Her fingers follow the edge of my scar, and I hold perfectly still.
She rises up on her knees, her face inches from mine. Her breath is warm against my mouth. I can feel the hesitation in her, the fear, the way her body tenses like she’s about to do something incredibly brave or incredibly stupid, and she can’t tell the difference.
And her lips press against mine.
Soft. So soft. The gentlest thing I’ve ever felt. Just her mouth against mine, warm and careful and deliberate. Like she’s choosing this. Choosing me.
She pulls back half an inch, and her eyes search mine.
My hand slides to the back of her neck. Gentle, barely any pressure, just enough to tell her I’m here and I want this.
She kisses me again—longer this time. Still gentle, still sweet, but there’s a sureness to it now. Her fingers curl against my jaw, and her body leans into mine, and the sound she makes, a tiny exhale through her nose, is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever heard.
When she pulls back the second time, her cheeks are flushed, and her eyes are bright. She looks at me like she can’t believe what she just did. She holds my eyes for another second. Then she drops her head back to my chest, curling into me like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
I pull the blanket from the back of the couch and drape it over both of us. She burrows deeper, her legs tucking up, her body fitting against mine.
“I still think you smell like hot turd,” she adds, her voice already thick with sleep.
My chest shakes with silent laughter. She feels it and makes an annoyed sound, pressing her face harder against me like she can smother the amusement out of my body.
“Stop laughing. I’m being serious.”
I press my lips to the top of her head. Hold them there. Breathe her in—wild berries and warmth and the faintest trace of peach soap.
Her breathing slows. Her grip on my shirt loosens, then tightens, then loosens again as sleep pulls her under. Each exhale a little longer than the last, a little deeper, until she’s gone. Fully asleep. Trusting me enough to let go completely.
I should move her to the bed. She’d be more comfortable there. But I can’t bring myself to shift even an inch. Not when she chose this. Not when she chose me.
My thumb traces slow circles on her shoulder, and my eyes grow heavy. I fight it for a while because watching her sleep feels important. Like if I close my eyes, I might wake up, and she’ll be gone—back to the woods, back to talking to sticks and rocks because no one else is there.
But her warmth is pulling me under. The steady rhythm of her breathing syncs with mine, and my body, this body that hasn’t truly rested in a decade, finally gives in.