39. Lilith
CHAPTER THIRTY NINE
I was in his bed.
His actual bed.
I supposed that wasn’t new information. I’d been sleeping in it for the past eleven days. But still, it felt so strange.
He’d left after ordering food, and I was left lying there, staring at the ceiling, trying to process what the hell my life had become.
I wasn’t going to think about what I’d lost. I wasn’t going to think about what happened before this. I wasn’t going to think about how my life had somehow managed to go even more sideways than I’d ever planned for.
Instead, I was going to focus on the fact that I was in the bed of someone who actually gave a fuck. And Jesus Christ, when was the last time that had been true?
Someone who had done nothing but be good to me. Someone who had pulled me out of that alley. Someone who had made sure I was fed, warm, safe.
And, as a very nice bonus, someone who was stupidly beautiful.
I’d spent the entire day stealing glances at him.
Not even on purpose—okay, maybe a little bit on purpose.
But he was there. The sharp line of his jaw, the way his brows furrowed slightly when he was thinking.
It was just so different getting to see every single part of his face as it worked as one.
The far away ding of the elevator pulled me from my thoughts.
Oh yeah, this man had a private elevator. A penthouse. And a private elevator.
I pushed myself up so that I was sitting, and a moment later, Silas stepped into the bedroom.
“What the hell?” I blurted.
He stood there grinning, carrying no less than six bags of food, handles looped tightly around his fingers. “Dinner.”
“Dinner?” I echoed, brows lifting. “For how many people ?”
“ Thought you might want options,” he shrugged, setting the bags down at the end of the bed.
“Options?” I gave him a pointed look. “This is enough to feed an entire football team. Are you planning on inviting people round, or…?”
His grin only widened, but he didn’t answer. Instead, he turned and strode back out of the room, leaving me staring at the mountain of takeout bags. I had to give it to him, it smelled delicious, and my mouth was already watering.
A moment later, he returned with two plates balanced in one hand, a set of utensils in the other, and two glasses of water tucked between his arm and chest. He passed me one of the glasses, and sat down next to me, legs crossed on the bed as he started unpacking one container at a time.
“Arancini,” he announced, lifting the lid dramatically. “Golden, crispy, cheesy—because I have standards.”
“Bold start,” I snorted as he grabbed another bag, revealing another container.
“That one looks fancy. What is it?”
“Osso buco. Braised veal shank. The risotto’s saffron.”
I blinked. “Did you just casually say ‘veal shank’ like that’s a normal thing to order as takeout?”
“It’s normal if you have taste,” he said, pulling out the next thing.
“Okay, this one actually looks familiar. Fancy meatballs?”
He shot me a look. “Polpette. But sure. Let’s go with ‘fancy meatballs.’”
I grinned as he dug into another bag. “Alright. What am I looking at now?”
“Panzerotti.” He pried one open with his fingers, revealing gooey, molten cheese and tomato. “Basically a deep-fried calzone.”
Next came three loaves of bread, olives, cheeses, and because apparently excess was the theme of the night, a whole damn bucket of fries.
“Ooh—watch this.” He grabbed a small remote from the nightstand, pointing it toward the opposite side of the room.
A soft whirring sound filled the space, and a white screen slowly lowered from the ceiling, covering the front of the bookshelves.
He clicked another button, and a projector hummed to life, glowing softly as it booted up.
My mouth parted slightly.
He turned back to me, beaming. “What do you want to watch?”
I glanced from the massive screen, to him, to the literal mountain of food between us. I had no words. So I just shook my head. “Dealer’s choice.”
His grin widened, and he didn’t hesitate, clicking through the menu before settling on some nature documentary. The next thing I knew, he was shifting up onto the bed, settling back against the headboard, then patting the space between his legs. “Come on.”
“Uh, what?”
He didn ’t say anything—just reached out, gently catching an unmarked patch of my skin, giving it a light tug.
I reluctantly moved, settling between his legs with my back to his chest. He slid his arms around me, pulling me against him.
And then—a kiss. Soft, slow, just a brush of lips against my neck that sent a shiver down my spine.
He reached forward with one arm, plucking an arancini from the open container. “Here,” he said, holding it up in front of me.
“What are you doing?”
“Feeding you,” he said simply.
“I can feed myself.”
“I know.”
I rolled my eyes, but leaned forward slightly, taking a bite. Warm gooey cheese and rice melted on my tongue in a way that made my stomach rumble again. Good God, it was delicious.
Between his own bites, he’d reach forward, grabbing something and holding it out for me. A forkful of osso buco. A piece of panzerotti, the cheese stretching as he tore it. A fry, dragged through aioli.
Then he reached for the polpette, holding it up expectantly.
I shook my head. “Nope.”
“Why not?”
“No more cheese. I’ll die.”
“You’ve been eating cheese this whole time.”
I sighed, leaning back against his chest. “Yeah, and now I’m at my limit.”
“What do you mean?”
“Me and dairy don’t get along, okay? No more. Please.”
I wasn’t about to go into an in-depth discussion about how right now, I was in his very expensive, very nice, very not-equipped-for-me-to-shit-myself-in penthouse. That would definitely have killed whatever was going on here.
I glanced over my shoulder to find him staring over at the whole feast like it had just given him the worst news of his life.
“That explains the oat milk,” he whispered, almost to himself.
I snorted. “What?”
He shrugged. “I always wondered why you never got regular milk.”
I rolled my eyes. “And you never thought to… ask?”
“I don’t know. Thought maybe you were just one of those oat milk people. Well, good job I’ve already had the fridge stocked with it for you.”
The fridge.
My fridge.
A bolt of lightning struck right through my chest.
“Oh, fuck.”
I jumped up off the bed as quickly as I could without knocking the food all over. My pulse spiked, brain scrambling to catch up with the flood of panic that crashed over me.
“What? What’s wrong?” His voice was sharp, laced with concern as he stood up to meet me.
“Where are my clothes? I need my clothes,” I muttered, making a beeline for his closet. “And my shoes. Where are my shoes? I need my shoes—”
“Lilith. Hey. Stop. What’s going on?”
“Katniss,” panic rose up my throat, tears prickling at the edges of my vision. “ Shit. She hasn’t eaten—oh my God, she’ll be halfway starving to death now!”
I’d left her. I hadn’t even thought about her until now. Shit. I was the worst mother in the whole entire world. She was alone, probably curled up in her tank, waiting for me, waiting for food, waiting for anything—
“Lilith, sweetheart,” his voice cut through the blaring alarms in my head. “Wait. She’s fine.”
“How is she fine?” I snapped. I didn’t mean to, but the adrenaline was rushing too hard for my thoughts to be clear. “She hasn’t eaten, they can go a few months without food, but shit, she should be eating. What if she’s sick? What if she’s dead?”
He stepped in, close and solid, his hands landing gently on my arms as he looked down at me. “Lilith. She’s fine, I promise.”
“How do you know that?”
He hesitated for the briefest moment, his jaw tightening before he exhaled.
“Because Molly’s been taking care of her,” he said quietly.
“Molly?” I repeated, frowning. “What do you mean, Molly? How?”
“She’s been stopping by your place, said she had a spare key. I asked her to check in on things. Including Katniss.”
“You asked her? When? How did you even—?”
“The day after…” he trailed off, his gaze softening. “I noticed your phone. You had fourteen missed calls from her.”
That stopped me in my tracks. “What?”
“When it rang again, I picked it up.”
I twisted my hands together, imagining Molly’s reaction to hearing his voice instead of mine.
“She was confused,” he said, running a hand through his curls. “I told her I was with you, and before I could explain a thing, she screamed at me, called me a sketchy bastard and demanded to know what the hell I’d done with you.”
I winced, biting back a nervous laugh.
“She was worried sick—convinced I’d kidnapped you and was seconds away from calling the cops.”
“What did you say to her?” I asked.
He sighed , scrubbing a hand over his jaw. “I told her what happened. Told her you were safe. Here. Recovering. She…” he trailed off again, wincing.
“She chewed you out, didn’t she?”
“She let me have it. Said I had no right keeping her in the dark. Which I completely understood.”
Guilt crept in at that. I should’ve known she would be worried. I should’ve thought about that sooner too. God, I was an asshole.
“But she’s been taking care of everything,” he added, voice softer. “She’s been looking after Katniss every day, feeding her and cleaning her tank.”
A tidal wave of relief crashed through me, washing away the last of the panic still clinging to my skin.
“So, she’s okay?”
“She’s fine, everything’s fine. Molly’s been texting you updates,” he added. “Your phone’s been going off. A lot. It’s in there,” he said, nodding toward the nightstand. “It’s been on charge.”
I practically launched myself across the room, yanking the drawer open and snatching up my phone. The screen lit up instantly. Dozens of missed messages, mostly from Molly, and a few spam ones from takeouts and Uber offers.
There were so many pictures. At least fifty of them.