Chapter 4
Octavia
Silas doesn’t unpack. He doesn’t even unzip the bag.
He tosses it onto the bed like it’s temporary, like he’s staying in a place he doesn’t intend to memorize. The mattress dips under the weight, creaking faintly. Shoving his hands into his pockets, he slowly turns in a half circle, scanning the room with detached indifference.
There’s no curiosity in his expression. No gratitude. No relief.
If he feels any of those things, they’re buried too deep to reach.
“The bathroom’s down the hall,” I manage, hovering near the doorway instead of stepping fully inside. “We’ll have to… share it.”
The word share feels strange in my mouth.
His eyes move back to me, dark and steady. After a second, he shrugs like I just told him the weather forecast.
“Sounds fine,” he says evenly. “Unless you’re the type who uses up all the hot water.”
The comment catches me off guard. My brows draw together instinctively.
The corner of his mouth lifts slightly.
“I’m kidding,” he adds, tone dry. “Obviously sharing the shower would solve that problem.”
The image lands before I can stop it.
My eyes widen for half a heartbeat.
“That’s not what I-”
“Don't flatter yourself,” he mutters, watching my reaction with a quiet sort of satisfaction. “You’re way too easy to rile up.”
Heat rises along my neck despite myself. My fingers curl into the sleeves of my sweater, tugging the fabric down over my hands like that might anchor me.
There’s something deliberate in the way he pushes. Testing boundaries. Watching how quickly I flinch.
“How long are you planning to be so…” I begin, the word sticking when he looks at me again.
His gaze sharpens, not aggressive exactly, but intense enough to make the air feel thinner.
“So what?” he asks softly.
“Difficult,” I finish, refusing to back down.
He studies me for a moment longer, then lets himself fall back onto the bed. The frame groans under his weight. The twin mattress looks too small for him when he stretches out, one arm folding behind his head while the other rests loosely over his stomach.
“To you?” he clarifies lazily. “Depends.”
“On what?”
“On how much you hover.”
The words aren’t loud. They don’t need to be.
His shirt shifts as he moves, riding up slightly along his abdomen. My gaze flickers down before I can stop it.
Ink.
Dark lines curve along the edge of his waist, disappearing beneath the waistband of his jeans. The design is incomplete from this angle, just a suggestion of something larger hidden beneath fabric. The forest on his arms suddenly feels like only part of the story.
He notices.
Of course he does.
“If you’re going to stare,” he says, not lifting his head, “at least be subtle about it.”
My eyes snap back to his face.
A faint smirk curves his mouth, not playful, not kind. Just aware.
“That one isn’t for casual viewing,” he continues, glancing down briefly at the ink along his waist. “It’s for people who can handle whats beneath it.”
The implication sits heavy in the space between us as flustered irritation rises in my chest.
I hate that he can see it.
Shaking my head slowly, I narrow my eyes at him as if that alone can steady me.
“Don’t flatter yourself,” I say, quieter this time but sharper, throwing his own words back at him.
He doesn’t laugh. He doesn’t snap back. He just watches.
That steady, unreadable gaze follows me as I take a step toward the hallway.
Out of the corner of my eye, I catch movement across from us.
The crack in my bedroom door widens slightly, Cheyenne and Maria’s faces appearing in the sliver of space, eyes wide and shamelessly invested in every second of this exchange.
Of course they’re watching.
“I’ll leave you to it,” I say, trying to sound unaffected as I shift my weight toward the doorway.
The faint sound of him clearing his throat stops me before I can cross the threshold.
“Octavia.”
There’s something different in the way he says my name. Not mocking. Not playful. It’s lower, more firm, hooking into me before I can ignore it.
Pausing, I turn back.
He’s propped up now, resting on his elbows, forearms pressing into the mattress as he studies me with an intensity that feels less like teasing and more like warning.
“If you’re smart,” he says evenly, “you won’t try to figure me out.”
The air shifts.
The sarcasm is gone from his tone. What’s left is controlled and guarded, like he’s drawing a boundary I haven’t even tried to cross yet.
My hand lifts instinctively, fingertips brushing over the scar on my cheek. It’s a nervous habit I don’t realize I’m doing until I feel the slight ridge beneath my skin. His eyes follow the movement immediately, darkening as they settle on the mark.
“If you’re smart,” I reply, my voice lower now, “you’ll get the hell out of my house.”
There’s more behind those words than anger.
“I’ve dealt with your kind before,” I continue, dropping my hand from my face. “The scar was enough of a reminder.”
For the first time since he walked through the door, something in his expression shifts.
It’s subtle, but it’s there.
The cold detachment cracks just slightly, replaced by something sharper. Something that looks uncomfortably close to understanding.
I don’t give him the chance to respond.
The door closes between us with more force than I intend, the sound echoing down the hallway. My palm stays pressed against the wood for a second, my breathing uneven.
Across the hall, Cheyenne and Maria vanish from the doorway, no doubt scrambling to pretend they weren’t witnessing every painful second.
Behind me, there’s silence.
But the way he looked at my scar lingers in my mind longer than I want it to.
Cheyenne and Maria leave in a storm of curiosity and poorly disguised excitement.
It takes far more effort than it should to get them out the door.
They linger in the hallway, whispering and nudging each other, demanding details I don’t have and reactions I don’t fully understand myself.
By the time I manage to push them toward the stairs, they’ve already built half a narrative around Silas without knowing anything real about him.
“Go to Kadin’s tonight,” Cheyenne insists, backing toward the door. “If nothing else, it’ll give you space.”
Maria nods in agreement. “And you owe us answers.”
The front door shuts behind them, the house exhaling into a quieter rhythm.
From downstairs, the clatter of cookware and the faint hiss of something hitting a hot pan drifts upward.
My mom has clearly thrown herself into dinner preparations, which usually means she’s overcompensating for something.
Garlic and rosemary weave through the air, warm and welcoming in a way that feels almost forced.
My phone vibrates in my hand again.
The group chat explodes with messages. Cheyenne has already shifted from concern to commentary, Maria not far behind her.
Their earlier warnings about danger have been replaced with bold claims about his looks.
Words like unfair and criminally attractive float across the screen. A string of eggplant emojis follows.
The phone goes dark after the sixth one.
It’s easier to turn it off than to keep reading.
Silas may be attractive. That’s undeniable. But that doesn’t soften the truth that he killed someone. No amount of sharp cheekbones or tattoos erases that fact. The tension in my stomach refuses to settle.
Three outfits are spread across my bed like options in a game I didn’t ask to play. Cheyenne clearly curated them before she left. Each one reveals a little more than the last. The final option is something she could pull off effortlessly, something bold and unapologetic.
I pick up the smallest piece, holding the bralette in the air and studying it like it’s a foreign object.
There’s no world where I would wear that alone.
A quiet breath leaves me as I pace in front of the mirror, robe loosely tied around my waist. The fabric shifts open slightly as I move, offering glimpses of skin I’m not always comfortable seeing.
For once, I don’t look away.
My hand drifts down the front of my body, fingers tracing the curve of my waist and stomach. The shape is softer than the standards etched into my head, but not excessive. Not monstrous.
Still, my mother’s voice creeps in.
Piggy.
The word lands like it always does.
The robe is pulled closed quickly, as if fabric can shield against memory. Thin scars map across my stomach in faint, pale lines. Each outfit Cheyenne picked would expose at least one of them.
The safer choice wins.
A cropped black tank and soft flared jeans feel manageable. As the shirt slides down over my torso, a few light scars remain visible near my waist. I lift the hem again before I can stop myself, staring at them as if they might have changed.
They haven’t.
The memory follows anyway.
“Lesson one, little Piggy,” my mother’s voice echoes in the back of my mind. Her breath heavy. The cold drag of metal against skin. “The only way to succeed in this life is to be beautiful. If they leave their mark, so do I.”
The sensation is so vivid that I almost feel it again.
“Got to cut away the fat-”
“Where does Stephanie want my laundry to go?”
Silas’s voice slices through the memory abruptly.
Our eyes meet in the mirror before I fully register that he’s standing there. My shirt drops instantly, fabric falling back into place.
He’s in the doorway like he belongs there.
A towel hangs loosely from his hand. His hair is still damp, darker now that it’s wet and pushed back from his face.
A hoodie and sweats should make him look casual, almost boyish, but somehow they don’t.
The broad lines of his shoulders and the quiet control in his posture make even comfortable clothes look good.
His gaze dips briefly before returning to my reflection.
“Don’t you know how to knock?” The words come out sharper than intended.
He shifts slightly, glancing at the towel as if that explains his presence.
“I didn’t think it mattered,” he says calmly. “You seemed busy.”
The implication lingers in the air.
The few steps between us close quickly as I move toward him. The towel is taken from his hand without asking and tossed into my laundry basket.
“There was nothing to interrupt,” I say, keeping my voice steady. “I’m getting ready for Kadin’s study group.”
The name sits there between us.
His expression doesn’t change much, but something in his eyes does. Not anger. Not curiosity. Just a flicker of something that feels like calculation.
The doorway suddenly feels narrower with him standing in it.
“Right,” he says, leaning one shoulder against the doorframe like he has no intention of leaving anytime soon. His eyes drift slowly over the room, landing on the outfits Cheyenne had laid across my bed. “So tell me,” he continues casually, “are you trying to fuck him, or is he trying to fuck you?”
For a moment the words don’t register.
Then they do.
I stare at him, completely thrown off by the bluntness of it. “Excuse me?”
He doesn’t look the least bit embarrassed. Instead, his gaze drifts back to the bed as if my reaction barely matters. Without asking, he pushes himself away from the doorway and steps further into the room.
Silas moves with an easy confidence that makes the small space feel even smaller. His attention lands squarely on the pile of clothes Cheyenne left behind.
“I personally would’ve gone with this one,” he says, reaching down and picking up the bralette.
The movement sends a jolt through me.
“Hey-” My hands scramble toward him immediately.
But he lifts it out of reach before I can grab it.
The fabric dangles from his fingers high above my head, his arm extended just enough that I can’t quite reach it. The smirk that forms on his mouth makes it clear he’s enjoying himself.
“Give it back,” I say, my voice tightening as I step closer.
Instead of handing it over, he raises it even higher.
For someone standing so casually, he’s impossibly solid. My hand grabs the front of his hoodie, tugging sharply at the collar in an attempt to pull him down to my height.
“Silas.”
He doesn’t budge.
Not even an inch.
Standing this close makes the difference in our height even more obvious. My chin barely reaches his shoulder, the faint scent of soap and damp cotton still clinging to him from his shower.
“No,” he murmurs, the word barely above a whisper.
Frustration rises in my chest. My mouth opens, ready to throw something cruel enough to land where it hurts.
Then his hand moves.
Without warning, his palm settles against my waist.
The sudden contact stops everything.
The bralette drops from his fingers onto the bed behind us, forgotten as his grip tightens just enough to keep me from stepping away. The warmth of his hand burns through the thin fabric of my tank top.
His attention has shifted completely.
His eyes move downward.
I freeze when I realize what he’s looking at.
The hem of my shirt had lifted slightly when I reached for him. The thin pale lines across my stomach are exposed again.
His thumb brushes over one of them before I can react.
The touch is careful, almost curious.
My breath catches in my throat.
The heat in my face spreads quickly, flooding down my neck as his thumb traces along another faint line. There’s nothing mocking in the way he studies them now. The sharpness he carried earlier has quieted into something more focused.
“Someone did that to you?” he asks quietly.
My voice refuses to work.
His gaze lifts from the scars to my face, narrowing slightly as he watches my reaction.
“Or,” he adds after a moment, “did you do it to yourself?”
The question pulls words loose before I can stop them.
“My bio mom…her friends,” I manage, the answer leaving me shakier than I expected.
For a second he doesn’t move.
Then the tension in his jaw becomes visible. His hand drops from my waist almost immediately, like he’s just realized he shouldn’t have been touching me at all.
“Is she alive?” he asks.
The question makes my stomach twist.
The memory of the articles about him flashes through my mind at the same time. What he did. The way the headlines described it.
I shake my head.
His shoulders rise and fall in a slow breath.
“Good to know,” he mutters quietly.
My mom’s voice suddenly echoes up the staircase from downstairs.
“Octavia! Silas! Dinner!”
The call breaks whatever strange moment had formed between us.
He steps back first.
The distance returns just as quickly as it vanished, leaving the warmth of his hand lingering on my waist long after it’s gone. I remain standing exactly where I was, still trying to catch my breath as he moves toward the doorway again.
At the threshold he pauses briefly.
“Your outfit looks nice on you,” he whispers.
This time there’s no sarcasm in his voice. No edge.
Just a simple statement before he turns and disappears down the stairs.