Chapter 11
Terran
As I predicted, his car was one of those overseas brands that only rappers and doctors owned, both used as a flex of the wealth they’d accumulated through their accolades.
I was afraid to touch anything aside from my seatbelt when I’d climbed into the passenger side after gawking at the thing the entire walk across the parking lot. Silas had made no show of giving me a tour to brag about the suped up features or how expensive the add-ons were when buying it.
He’d simply shoved me into the seat the moment he had the door popped open, and slammed it shut the second both of my legs were swung inside.
Honestly, I could appreciate the complete disregard for a piece of equipment this nice. Clearly, he was no stranger to having money and wasn’t at all interested in using that as a personality trait.
The car rumbled to life once the quick start button was pressed, and off we went.
No radio, no windows down to let in the breeze blowing by, to help fill the heavy silence that had fallen over us. My stomach still hurt from him touching it, but the rest of me was lit up like a damn candle, eager for him to touch me again.
“You into cars?” I asked.
His wrist flicked deftly on the gearshift. “Not particularly.”
Well, so much for that being a casual topic of conversation.
Leaning back in my seat, I held back a sigh.
Trying to pick through Silas’s wall was…
difficult. His stony disposition clashed hard with my easy-going one, making for a strained and unnatural exchange.
I’d seen flashes of the other side of him once or twice in the hospital—the sarcastic and biting personality that he’d had to smother in cool professionalism—that was what I was really interested in.
Why did I want to try chipping my way down to it in the first place?
It was anyone’s guess.
Attraction?
Something else driving me to act this irrational?
Don’t expect romantic attachments to be strictly logical or rational.
Jesus, fuck.
“Directions would be nice,” he said.
Oh, right. Leaning forward, I pointed through the windshield. “Right there. You can pull off in the driveway on the side. We’ve got a private lot in the back.”
“We,” he mumbled, flicking on his turn signal and shifting down a gear.
“My sister and I,” I replied. Then added, “And her three year old.”
He said nothing to that, silently waiting for traffic to clear before spinning his wheel around one-handed and pulling around to the back of my house. Surprisingly, our car was missing from the driveway with no signs that either of my family members were home.
Chances were Ainsley had come home with a sour attitude and now Amelia was driving her around town to try and lull her into a late nap. Not a bad idea, considering Ainsley was currently going through a growth spurt and her sleep regression had been a fucking bear to deal with.
Silas killed the engine of his car, leaving me to stare at his back while he climbed out of the car and slammed the door behind him.
He’s… coming in?
Rapidly, my mind cycled through the state of what was waiting for us beyond the back door. Children’s toys were probably scattered everywhere, the house most likely still smelled like slightly burnt toast from breakfast this morning.
Fuck, did I remember to clean up Ainsley’s highchair before we left for the hospital?
I jumped when Silas ripped my door open.
I stayed stiff in my seat while he leaned into the cab and unhooked my seatbelt for me, pulling it back to rest against the door’s partition and then looping an arm under mine to help swing me out into the open air.
“How long am I supposed to baby myself?” I asked.
If this had to go on for another month, I may end up committing myself to the psych ward. No way did I have the capacity to sit on my ass for the next four plus weeks while my body slowly knitted itself back together.
I’d done too much Googling over the past few days trying to figure out how long I needed to behave before I could go back to work—the information ranging from a full six weeks to months depending on the severity.
How the hell was I supposed to stay trapped in my house for that long doing fuck all?
“Depends,” was all he responded with.
“Wow, how informative. You know, you should really start giving formal lectures. People could learn something from you.”
He kicked the door shut behind me, an arm coming around my midsection in a surprising show of gentleness. “I hate public speaking.”
My face burned, pressed against him, and feeling his body move with mine was weirdly erotic. Touch-starved wasn’t in my vocabulary, not when I had a clingy three year old demanding attention and to be held every waking second. If anything, I was touched-out.
Yet, none of that mattered when Silas’s hand drifted down to my waist, sneaking past the parted flaps of my coat and underneath my shirt to touch me.
His fingers were no longer cold like they’d been back in the grocery store.
Here, they were molten hot, burning me with every shift of my hip as we made our way to the back door.
It was open when I tried the handle and easily pushed open with a quick shove. Ellington Heights had less crime than both Palmertson and Edgewood combined, a statistic that still made me double take it every time it came across on the precinct’s monthly reporting.
Amelia had been happy to hear that fact over dinner on our third week living here, and ever since, was more than eager to live life like we were in the country, far away from any kind of civilization that would require us to lock our doors while there was still daylight out.
My habits, unfortunately, were much harder to kill.
“Guess they’re still out,” I said, letting the door swing shut behind us.
He was quiet next to me, his gaze roaming around the small breezeway leading up into the rest of the house. Shoes were scattered on a mat by the door, jackets and coats hung up haphazardly next to the hook where our keys were usually tossed the moment we walked through the door.
A small bench was set against the wall, beat up and well-worn from use, that had a stray sippy cup on top of it. Long forgotten in the flurry of energy of us getting Ainsley in the car this morning.
Two photos were hung up right by the entryway into the rest of the house, one of Ainsley and Amelia the day she was born and one of the three of us on our first day moving into this house, posing in front of it with all of our faces stretched wide with smiles.
Whatever Silas saw, the life I lived with my sister, he didn’t comment on it.
Gave no indications as to how he perceived me, or judging me for our vastly different lifestyles.
Without knowing what he had going on at home, I had a high amount of confidence that his living space was far more well kept than this.
I doubted there were faint water stains on his wood furniture or marks along the wall from a child dragging their toys along it while being chased by their guardians.
He was probably as meticulous with his living space as he was at work: uniform and with everything having a place. Unlike the mess of what we were walking into now.
Hell, this man probably had a maid come around once a week to deep clean his place, if his car was any indication of his wealth.
“Bedroom,” he finally said.
Swallowing back my residual vulnerability, I nodded for the doorway. “Just down the hall.”
Taking two steps up into the main part of the house, we quickly moved through the living room, bypassing the dozens of toys scattered around, and down the hallway to the bedrooms. Mine was at the end of it, directly across from my sister’s, while Ainsley’s was kitty-corner to hers.
All of them were small, but honestly, neither my sister nor I were complaining.
Coming from a studio in the city to a house with three entire bedrooms and a separate living room had us feeling like we were living the high life.
I flicked on my light, bathing the room in a warm glow as Silas guided me inside. There wasn’t much to it in here, at least not out in the open for young eyes to see. Just a full sized bed, a dresser next to it, and a closet with doors that were, thankfully, pulled shut.
No one needed to be getting a good look at my personal wardrobe, especially the stuff I kept pushed to the very back of it.
After stripping me free from my jacket, he laid me down gently, flat on my back, and then grabbed both of my legs to lift them up onto the bed.
My pillows were fluffed behind my head with the same kind of robotic care he’d shown me in the hospital; a little funny considering what an imposing figure he was crowded inside of my small room.
“I’m not that fragile, you know.” If anything, surviving being almost killed was kind of a testament to my resilience and will to live.
I had too much shit to do to be lying around like a glass slipper, waiting for someone to come around and polish me pretty again.
Then again, maybe that was the entire problem—or rather, my weird attachment to my surgeon who’d been spending a great deal of time already taking care of me, overindulging me to the point of coddling.
My absolute weakness.
Even with the gruff words and lectures, I still liked it. Still liked his hands on me and him spoiling me with attention, even when he clearly had a plethora of other things to do that were way more important than tracking down a wayward cop hell-bent on making his recovery miserable.
“What, you don’t like to be pampered?” he shot back, reaching around to adjust the pillow trapped next to my hip.
My heartbeat picked up.
“Who said anything about that?”
And why would he say it like that?
“I just did.”
I was reading way too much into this to be getting this flustered.
“Is this some kind of dig?”