Chapter 3
Octavia
Cheyenne and Maria nearly shove past me when they hear the front door open, both of them trying to crowd the hallway like this is some kind of spectacle.
It takes more effort than it should to push them back toward my room.
Cheyenne argues that she has a right to assess the “incoming threat,” as Maria insists she’s staying for moral support, but neither of them can hide the curiosity lighting up their faces.
“Stay upstairs,” I tell them, keeping my voice low but firm.
They protest anyway. Of course they do.
Cheyenne groans dramatically about missing history in the making. Maria gives me a look that says she doesn’t trust this at all. The sound of my name drifting up from downstairs cuts through the hallway again, sharper this time.
On the fourth call, there’s no more pretending not to hear it.
The banister feels smooth and solid beneath my palm as I make my way down the staircase.
Each step feels louder than usual, the house strangely aware of what’s happening within it.
My parents’ voices blend together at the bottom of the stairs, low and measured, as if they’re trying to keep everything steady.
Near the door, a single duffel bag rests against the wall.
That’s all he brought?
The simplicity of it makes something in my chest tighten. Everything he owns, reduced to one worn bag sitting on polished wood floors.
The last step creaks faintly under my weight. My mother turns mid-sentence, spotting me instantly.
“There you are, honey!” she says brightly, crossing the foyer in seconds. Her hug comes before there’s time to brace for it, arms wrapping around me with warmth and enthusiasm that feels almost too loud for the moment.
Paperwork. Signatures. Long process. Her voice keeps going, but the words blur together. My father shifts slightly to the side as she guides me forward.
That’s when the rest of the room sharpens into focus.
Silas stands just inside the doorway, one shoulder angled against the frame as though he hasn’t fully committed to stepping into the house. Winter light spills in behind him, outlining his height before revealing his features.
He’s taller than expected. Taller than my dad by enough that it’s noticeable.
Broad shoulders stretch the fabric of his dark shirt, and his arms are folded across his chest in a posture that looks casual but reads guarded.
There’s tension in the way his jaw flexes, like he’s holding something back even while standing still.
His eyes find mine immediately.
They don’t hesitate. They don’t skim past.
Dark, steady, and assessing.
The weight of that gaze is physical. It travels without apology, taking in my face, the collar of my sweater, the way fabric drapes over curves I’d rather not draw attention to. It isn’t crude. It isn’t rushed. It’s deliberate.
Heat rises into my cheeks despite the chill that still lingers in the foyer from the open door.
Ink wraps around his forearms, visible beneath slightly pushed up sleeves. A forest etched into skin. Trees climbing upward from his wrists, shadows layered into bark and branches. The detail catches attention immediately, stark against pale skin. It feels symbolic in a way that’s hard to ignore.
When our eyes meet again, there’s a flicker of something that isn’t easy to name. It isn’t warmth. It isn’t friendliness. It feels closer to calculation…to awareness sharpened into restraint.
A polite smile forms on my lips because it feels like the right thing to do. The air between us stretches thin, tense in a way that doesn’t match the polite introductions still tumbling from my parents’ mouths.
He doesn’t smile back.
Instead, he straightens subtly and shifts his gaze away first. Not abruptly, not rudely, but intentionally. The avoidance feels measured. Like he’s decided, in that brief span of seconds, that distance is safer.
Unlike Kadin, whose appeal feels polished and almost rehearsed, Silas carries something far more dangerous in his presence.
His looks aren’t inviting. They aren’t designed to charm.
They feel sharpened, like the edge of a blade that doesn’t need to announce itself to be effective.
There’s nothing soft about him. Nothing welcoming.
His mouth rests in a straight, controlled line. Dark hair curls slightly around his ears in a way that might have looked careless on someone else, but on him it only adds to the impression that he doesn’t try to be appealing. He doesn’t need to.
“Silas, this is my daughter Octavia I was telling you about,” my father says warmly, stepping slightly closer to bridge the distance.
Silas shifts his weight forward and extends his hand toward me.
The movement is simple, some would even say expected.
My body reacts anyway.
A step backward happens before I consciously decide to take it.
Not a dramatic one, not obvious enough to call attention to, but enough that the space between us widens instead of closes.
My parents notice immediately. Their eyes flick between us, a shared look of nervousness passing across their faces.
“Octavia,” my mom prompts gently. “Introduce yourself.”
Silas tilts his head slightly, studying me in a way that feels far too focused for a first greeting. When he finally speaks, his voice is lower than expected, rougher, the sound of it sliding across skin rather than filling a room.
“I don’t bite,” he says dryly. “Unless you give me a reason to.”
The words land heavier than they should.
Heat floods my chest again, that same overwhelming pressure from earlier. My mother laughs quickly…too quickly.
She’s nervous too.
“He’s joking,” she says brightly. “And clearly not remembering our conversation about sarcasm.”
“Right,” he murmurs, though his tone suggests he’s not fully registering anything. “A joke.”
There’s something in the way he says it that makes it clear he doesn’t mind being misunderstood.
My hand lifts before I can talk myself out of it. His fingers close around mine almost immediately.
The contrast is jarring. His skin is warm and rough, calloused in a way that speaks of impact and friction. The shake isn’t polite. It’s firm, bordering on harsh. His grip tightens slightly. Before I can react, he tugs just enough to draw me a half-step closer.
There’s no mistaking the intention.
My balance shifts toward him. His other hand remains at his side, but the proximity alone is enough to make the air between us feel thinner.
He forces a smile onto his face, the expression not reaching his eyes.
“I look forward to joining your lovely family,” he says evenly.
The sarcasm is obvious.
So is the resentment beneath it.
My pulse pounds in my ears. Something about the way he holds my gaze makes it impossible to look away. His eyes are darker up close. Not empty. Not cold. Just guarded so tightly it reads as hostility.
“I’m sure,” I reply, tugging my hand free from his grip. “St. Augustine loves offering us their strays.”
The words leave my mouth before I fully consider them.
“Octavia!” my dad snaps immediately. “That’s enough.”
But Silas doesn’t bristle. He doesn’t lash out.
Instead, his lips curve slightly, revealing sharp canines in a smirk that feels more amused than offended.
“It’s fine, Jacob,” he says calmly, never looking away from me. “Good to know she has a little bite.”
The way he says it shifts something in my stomach.
Not anger.
Recognition.
He steps past me then, brushing close enough that the heat of him lingers for a fraction too long. His shoulder nearly grazes mine as he reaches down to grab the duffel bag from the floor.
Once the bag is slung over his shoulder, he finally looks away from me completely, glancing toward the staircase.
“Do you mind if I settle in?” he asks, tone neutral again, as if the exchange between us never happened.
But my skin still feels aware of where his hand had been.
“Not at all,” my mom says brightly, as if the last few minutes weren’t edged with tension. “I need to get dinner started, and Octavia should probably make sure her friends head home. Their moms want them back before your little study date tonight.”
The word study date lingers in the air with playful emphasis.
Silas gives a short, humorless scoff. “Study date,” he repeats, glancing at me from the corner of his eye. “What a thrill.”
There’s no effort to hide his suspicion.
Narrowing my eyes at him without thinking, I hold his gaze longer than is polite. Something about the way he says it feels pointed, like he’s testing how easily I’ll react.
“I’ll let them know,” I say evenly, forcing my tone back under control.
My dad claps his hands together once, eager to keep things moving. “Why don’t you show Silas his room,” he suggests, smiling in that hopeful way he uses when he wants everything to fall neatly into place. “And once you’re both settled, come down and help your mother-”
He catches himself mid-sentence, glancing toward Silas.
“-Steph with dinner.”
The correction hangs there for a second.
Silas nods once, then offers my mom a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. It’s controlled...practiced.
“Thank you,” he says, voice lower now. “For everything.”
My mom beams at him, clearly soaking up the gratitude. “Of course, sweetheart. This is going to be good for everyone.”
The certainty in her voice feels almost fragile.
There’s no arguing with it without shattering something.
I step forward to lead the way toward the staircase, brushing past Silas in the narrow foyer. The air feels heavy again the moment we’re close. His shoulder nearly grazes mine as I pass.
Then his voice drops, low and close.
“So long as you stay the hell away from me.”
The words are quiet enough that my parents don’t react.
But they land like ice water down my spine.
My steps falter for a fraction of a second before I force them to continue. The banister is cool under my hand as I begin climbing, heart pounding harder than it should be.
Behind me, I feel him move.
When I glance back, he’s already watching me, eyes narrowed slightly as if assessing whether I’ll say anything. There’s no apology there. No humor.
Just warning.
He shifts his duffel bag higher on his shoulder and starts up the stairs without waiting for my response.
Disbelief swirls through me, sharp and disorienting.
Who exactly did my parents just invite into our home?
And why does the threat in his whisper feel less like hatred and more like self-preservation?