39. Lilith #2
One of her crouching next to the vivarium, giving the camera a dramatic thumbs up. Another of her holding a very unimpressed Katniss up to her face, grinning like she’d won the lottery. Then there were the texts.
Molly
We’re bonding. She likes me. NO! SHE LOVES ME!
Molly
We’re practically besties now. Sorry, Lils, I’m the new fav. ??
Molly
Hope you’re doing okay. Love you ??
“ See? I’m looking after you, she’s looking after Katniss. We’ve got you covered.”
I looked up at him. He was standing by the edge of the bed, hands loose at his sides, concern etched across his brow, a sea of blankets and half-eaten food between us.
I was fine. Katniss was fine. Everything was fine.
A flood of emotions rushed through me, swelling up out of nowhere, hitting too fast, too hard. My throat tightened and my vision blurred slightly.
I wasn’t going to cry. I refused to cry.
Something in my chest pulled tight and I set my phone down and crossed the room.
He didn’t mov e, just watched me, lips parting slightly as he tracked my every step.
I stopped in front of him, tilting my head up to meet his eyes, just as they dropped to my lips.
A soft shiver rolled through me as I stood on my tiptoes and met his unfairly perfect lips with mine.
For a few seconds he didn’t move. But then, he kissed me back. His fingers threading through my hair, his other hand settling against my back.
I sighed into the kiss, my hands lifting to cup his face, feeling the rough scratch of stubble beneath my palms.
The hand on my back moved, fingertips brushing softly over my side and I leaned into him, my hands finding his shoulders, then trailing down slowly, melting into the muscles that tensed and flexed under my touch.
He continued his slow, gentle path, tracing the dip of my waist, the swell of my hip. Every sweep of his fingers sent a wave of heat pooling low in my stomach, my skin burning for more.
His tongue met mine, a slow, deliberate stroke, and I gasped against his lips, a heavy heat flushing through my cheeks, my body, everywhere. His fingers curled into my waist, pulling me closer to him, and fuck I wanted more.
He groaned into my mouth as his hands found my ass, squeezing, pulling me deeper. I gasped, gripping his shoulders, needing something to hold onto as my body lit up under his touch.
The kiss turned deeper, hungrier, tongues meeting as need pressed in from all sides.
I tilted my head, breaking away so I could press my lips to his jaw.
A sound escaped him, something halfway between a groan and my name.
I was hungry for him. Hungry for all of him.
I could have all of him now. And God, I wanted to see what he looked like when he broke under my touch.
“Lilith,” he murmured, my name rough, strained—the sound of it shot straight down between my thighs.
“Lilith,” he said again. But this time, he pulled himself away from my lips, hands covering mine, halting my movement.
I pulled back slightly, breath uneven as I searched his face.
His eyes were hooded, heavy with want—but something else lingered there too.
“We can’t,” he said quietly.
I frowned. “Why? We’ve already…” my voice faltered.
“Yeah,” he said softly, shifting to lace his fingers with mine. His thumbs brushed my knuckles. “But you weren’t covered in bruises then. You weren’t— ”
He broke off, jaw tightening, eyes dropping to my body, the faintest shadow of a frown creasing his brow. His voice was quieter when he spoke again. “I want you to heal first. You deserve to feel good without having to worry about getting hurt.”
I wanted him—so badly it ached. I didn’t give a shit about the bruises. All I cared about in that moment was him. His body, his lips, the heat of his skin, the way I knew it would feel when we finally let go.
But I wasn’t going to argue. We both needed to be comfortable.
I blew out a heavy breath, body still thrumming with need, but I nodded. “Okay, I understand.”
He held my gaze for a moment longer before he pressed a soft kiss to my forehead. “Do you want to finish eating?” he murmured. “Or do you want to get comfortable? If you do, just say the word and I can leave you for the night.”
“What?”
“Figured you might want the space.”
Space? What did he mean by that? Why on earth would I want space? I wanted him right next to me, his heat pressed against me, enveloping me in a little safety net of muscles and tattoos and him.
“Absolutely not. This is your bed Silas, and I want you to sleep next to me.”
His throat bobbed. “Are you sure?”
I rolled my eyes. “Yes. Of course I’m sure.”
For a second, he just stared down at me, like he was waiting for me to change my mind. Then, slowly, he let out a soft breath. “Okay.”
I had precisely two functioning brain cells at this hour, and both of them were busy trying to process why I felt like I was being used as a human blanket.
Something was tracing slow, lazy shapes against my shoulder. Something broad, firm, and warm was pressed against my back. And my cheek rested against something solid.
The two brain cells tried to catch up, sluggish with sleep, dragging themselves toward awareness like a dial-up internet connection.
Coffee. Ink. That stupid, delicious sage and sea salt scent of him.
Oh.
My lashes fluttered open. Soft morning light filtered through the curtains, stretching over the stacked spines across the bookshelves, softening the plants into lighter shades of green.
I exhaled slowl y, shifting myself, and immediately froze.
I wasn’t just near Silas. No. I was fully sprawled out across his lap, my head resting on his thigh, his arm draped across my back.
My stomach tightened.
There was the rustle of paper. The quiet turn of a page.
I turned my head, cheek dragging over the soft fabric of his sweatpants, and let my gaze trail up.
The muscles, the olive skin, the tattoos…
The feathers that curved over his ribs, the dagger down his sternum, that dark, detailed, gorgeous moth stretching shoulder to shoulder.
I could see it all.
Not just in pictures.
But close up.
Shit.
My eyes wandered higher.
The stubble. The dark, unruly curls still messy from sleep. The slight furrow of his brows, deep in whatever he was reading.
Wait. Glasses?
Oh my God.
Not just glasses. The kind of glasses that made my brain short-circuit and my ovaries file for bankruptcy. Thin black frames, sharp against the strong cut of his face, resting low enough on his nose that I could still see the deep brown of his eyes as they flicked across the pages.
As if this man couldn’t get any prettier.
A flutter kicked up in my stomach—unfair, ridiculous, and completely inappropriate, considering I was still half-asleep and barely functioning.
I swallowed, clearing my throat, and he glanced down.
The second our eyes met, he smiled. “Good morning, sweetheart.” His voice was still rough with sleep, low and scratchy like he hadn’t used it yet.
Oh, fuck me.
“You wear glasses,” I blurted.
He huffed a quiet laugh. “Very observant.”
“I’ve never seen you wear them.”
He tipped his head slightly, pushing them up with his knuckle. “They’d have fogged up from the scarf. Plus, I only wear them when I’m reading.”
Oh. That made sense. But also, damn it.
His hand shifted, moving from my shoulder, fingers skimming over my skin until they reached my hair.
“They suit you.”
His lips twitch ed. He knew exactly what he was doing to me. “Yeah?”
“Mhm. Very professor chic.”
That earned me another quiet chuckle. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”
Should I be embarrassed that I’m being like this right now?
Probably. Definitely. But also… maybe not?
It wasn’t like it was the first time I’d been wrapped up in him. But waking up to him? This was new. Surreal even.
This felt normal. Like we were normal. Which was, of course, a completely insane thought to have.
I breathed out slowly, trying to ground myself in something other than way my stomach was flipping over itself.
It didn’t work.
How the hell had I gone from being obsessed with a half-covered enigma, to waking up in the lap of a literary reading, devastatingly attractive man who looked like he’d wandered straight out of a dark academia novel?
Get a grip, Lilith.
I blinked, rubbing the sleep from my eyes with a yawn. “What are you reading?”
He lifted the book slightly so I could see the cover. Leather bound. Old. Well worn.
I squinted. “Looks pretentious.”
He huffed a quiet laugh. “It’s Dante.”
“Okay, yeah. Super pretentious.”
He scoffed. “You work in a bookstore, and that’s your literary criticism?”
“Excuse me, I sell books. I don’t pretend to be an eight-hundred-year-old philosopher.”
He just smirked, flipping a page.
I shot him a look, but my gaze flicked back to the book, the well-worn spine, the delicate pages.
Fuck it.
“Read it to me.”
“What?”
“Read. It. To. Me.”
His eyes locked onto mine, something subtle shifting behind them. “In English or Italian?”
I grinned. “Italian, obviously.”
He let out a long-suffering sigh but flipped back to the beginning of the book.
“Nel mezzo del cammin di nostra vita mi ritrovai per una selva oscura, ché la diritta via era smarrita.”
I grinned, nestling in, letting my head rest more comfortably against his thigh.
“Ahi quanto a dir qual era è cosa dura esta selva selvaggia es aspra e forte che nel pensier rinova la paura!”
His fingers absentmindedly brushed through my hair, toying with the strands as he continued.
“Io non so ben ridir com’io v’intrai, tant’era pien di sonno a quel punto che la verace via abbandonai.”
I let my eyes drift shut, listening, warmth fluttering deep in my stomach.
A slow hum left me. “I have no idea what you’re saying, but it sounds really nice.”
“Good. Then I can say whatever I want.”
My eyes snapped back open. “Hey—no, I take it back. Translate.”
He smirked, flipping another page. “Not a chance. Now shut your eyes so I can carry on.”
I huffed, but did as I was told, settling deeper into him, letting his voice wrap around me like silk.
“Sei la donna più bella che io abbia mai visto. Non hai idea di quanto mi senta privilegiato a far parta della tua vita. Ti prometto che ti proteggerò sempre, che ti terrò al sicuro, che non permetterò mai che ti accada nulla di male. Non merito questo. Non merito te. Sei davvero incredibile.”