Chapter 13
NOVA
The knock on my trailer door comes at seven sharp, and I open it to find Silas holding a bottle of wine and wearing an expression I can't quite read.
“Ready for dinner?”
I grab my jacket and follow him across the lot to his trailer, which is larger than mine and smells like garlic and herbs. The space feels intimate—soft lighting, a small table set for two, food simmering on the stove that makes my mouth water.
“This is fancy,” I tease, settling into one of the chairs. “Wine, candlelight, home cooking. What's the occasion?”
He pours wine into two glasses without meeting my eyes. “Can't a man cook for a beautiful woman without an ulterior motive?”
His tone is off. Usually when Silas flirts, there's heat behind it, that dangerous edge that makes my pulse quicken. Tonight he sounds almost... careful. Nervous, even.
I lean forward, letting my fingers trail along the stem of my wine glass. “Since when do you do anything without an ulterior motive?”
That gets a small smile, but it doesn't reach his eyes. He turns back to the stove, and I study the line of his shoulders, the tension in his movements as he plates whatever he's been making.
“Chicken marsala,” he announces, setting the dish in front of me. “Hope you're hungry.”
The smell alone is enough to make me moan. When I take the first bite, I have to close my eyes—it's perfectly cooked, the sauce rich and complex.
“Jesus, Silas. This is incredible.” I take another bite, savoring it. “Where did you learn to cook like this?”
He shrugs, cutting into his own portion with mechanical precision. “You learn when you've got no one else to rely on. When it's cook or starve.”
There's a rawness in those words, a glimpse into whatever shaped him before the carnival, before me. I want to push, to ask more, but the careful way he's avoiding my gaze tells me now isn't the time.
We eat in relative silence, the atmosphere growing heavier with each passing minute.
I try to lighten the mood with small talk about the show, about Cole's terrible jokes, about anything that might break whatever spell has settled over us.
But Silas responds with distracted hums and one-word answers.
When we're finished, he pours more wine and finally looks directly at me. “Nova, I found some information.”
My fork freezes halfway to my mouth. A cold dread settles in my chest, spreading outward like spilled ice water. “Information?”
“About you.”
Fight or flight kicks in hard and fast. My pulse spikes hard, and I have to fight the urge to bolt for the door. Instead, I set down my fork with deliberate calm and lean back in my chair.
“What kind of information?”
“You're married.”
The words land before I'm ready for them. I feel the blood drain from my face, feel my hands start to shake. “I—”
“To Roman Miller.” His voice is gentle, but there's steel underneath. “What happened, Nova?”
Every defensive instinct I've honed over the years slams into place. I stand abruptly, nearly knocking over my wine glass. “That's none of your fucking business.”
“It is when he might come looking for you. When you're running scared and—”
“I'm not running scared.” The lie tastes bitter on my tongue. “And I don't need you digging into my past like some kind of stalker.”
“I want to help you.”
“I don't need your help!” The words come out sharper than I intended, but I can't take them back now. Can't open that door, can't let him see how broken I really am underneath all the attitude and bravado.
Silas stands too, and suddenly the trailer feels impossibly small. “Maybe you don't. But you've got it anyway.”
“Why? Because we fucked a few times? Because you think that gives you some kind of ownership over me?”
His jaw clenches. “Because someone hurt you. Because you flinch when people touch you without warning. Because you keep looking over your shoulder.”
Heat floods my cheeks. He's been watching me that closely? Studying me like I'm some kind of case study?
“You want to know why I don't answer your questions?” I step closer, using anger to mask the fear clawing at my throat.
“Because every time someone gets too close, every time I let my guard down, I end up bleeding. So excuse me for not being eager to bare my soul to you just because you can make me come.”
A dangerous gleam flickers in his eyes. “Is that what you think this is? Just sex?”
“Isn't it?”
We're standing inches apart now, the air between us crackling with tension. Sexual, yes, but threaded through with a feeling I trust even less—the kind that makes you want to stay.
That scares me more than Roman ever did.
“Let me tell you something about getting close to people,” Silas says, his voice low and rough. “I know what it's like to have your trust betrayed by the people who should protect you. I know what it's like to run, to hide, to build walls so high nobody can climb them.”
I want to step back, to put distance between us, but my feet won't move.
“I was born into a cult called the Sanctum of Ash.
Spent the first part of my life being tortured and brainwashed by monsters who called themselves Prophets.
My brothers and I escaped, but barely. And now we're hunting them down, one by one. Making them pay for what they did to us and every other child who suffered in that place.”
The words hit me like a sledgehammer. I stare at him, suddenly seeing him differently—the careful control, the protective instincts, the way he touches me like I'm precious and fragile at the same time.
“Silas...” My voice comes out as a whisper. “That's terrible. I'm so sorry.”
“I don't want your pity. I want your trust. I want you to stop shutting me out every time I try to get close.”
“You could have asked,” I say weakly. “Instead of investigating me like a suspect.”
“I did ask. Multiple times. You deflected every single question with jokes or sex or by walking away.”
He's right, and we both know it. I've been playing games since the moment I arrived, keeping him at arm's length even while letting him tie me up and make me scream his name.
“What else did you find?” The question slips out before I can stop it.
“Hospital records. Roman Miller was admitted to Phoenix General a month ago with severe internal bleeding. Trauma to the abdomen consistent with a rigging spike.”
My breath catches. “He's alive?”
“You sound surprised.”
“I—” I press a hand to my chest, trying to calm my racing heart. “I wasn't sure. I hoped... God, I hoped they hadn't saved him.”
Silas's expression darkens. “He hurt you.”
It's not a question, but I nod anyway. The words stick in my throat, years of shame and self-doubt making it impossible to speak.
“What did he do to you, baby?”
The endearment breaks something loose inside me. The tears I've been holding back spill over, and I wrap my arms around myself like I can hold all the broken pieces together.
“Everything,” I whisper. “He did everything to me. And I stayed. For twelve fucking years, I stayed and let him because I was fifteen and alone and I thought—I thought it was love.”
Silas moves closer, his hands hovering near my shoulders like he wants to touch me but isn't sure if I'll let him.
“The night I left, he was drunk. More drunk than usual. He backhanded me so hard I ended up on the ground and then yanked me up by my hair—” I touch my scalp reflexively, remembering the tearing sensation.
“I had already found the rigging spike when I fell and I just... I wanted him to stop. I wanted it all to stop.”
“You defended yourself.”
“I thought I killed him.” The words come out flat, matter-of-fact. “I drove that spike into his gut, and I hoped he would bleed out on the trailer floor. What does that make me?”
“Human.”
I look up at him, expecting to see judgment or disgust. Instead, his eyes are blazing with rage—not at me, but for me.
“If he ever comes looking for you,” Silas says, his voice deadly quiet, “if he ever so much as thinks about putting his hands on you again, he'll wish he'd stayed the fuck away.”
The promise in his voice sends a shiver through me. Not fear, but something else entirely. Relief, maybe. Or hope.
“You mean that?”
“Try me.”
We stand there staring at each other, the air thick with everything unsaid. All my walls, all my carefully constructed defenses, feel suddenly flimsy. Inadequate protection against the way he's looking at me—like I'm worth protecting, worth fighting for.
Like I'm worth more than the damage that was done to me.
“I'm scared,” I admit, the words barely audible.
“Of him?”
“Of you. Of this.” I gesture between us. “Of wanting things I can't have.”
Silas reaches out, giving me time to pull away. When I don't, he cups my face in his hands, thumbs brushing away tears I didn't realize were still falling.
“What if you could have it?”
“Nothing good ever lasts for me.”
“Maybe this time will be different.”
I want to believe him. God, how I want to believe him. But hope feels dangerous, like another kind of chain I'm not sure I'm ready to wear.