Chapter 5
Silas
The kitchen is quieter than I expected.
Octavia moves carefully beside the counter, her attention fixed on the cutting board as she chops through a small pile of herbs.
The rhythm is precise but cautious, like she’s following instructions she’s memorized rather than something that comes naturally.
Every movement mirrors Steph’s habits almost perfectly.
The angle of the knife, the way she gathers the herbs into a neat pile, even the way she brushes stray pieces aside with the edge of her palm.
She cooks the way someone does when they’re afraid of making a mistake.
Her focus stays on the cutting board, but I can tell she knows I’m here. The tension in her shoulders gives it away. She doesn’t look at me directly, though her eyes drift past me once or twice, narrowing briefly before snapping back to whatever task she’s pretending requires all of her attention.
It’s obvious she’s still thinking about what happened upstairs.
I shouldn’t have touched her.
There had been a laundry basket in my own room. I had no reason to step into hers at all. It would have taken ten seconds to handle it myself.
But curiosity got the better of me.
That same curiosity is still there now, gnawing quietly in the back of my mind.
When she looks at me, does she only see what everyone else sees?
A murderer.
Or does she remember something else?
Leaning against the edge of the table, I watch her from a distance that looks casual enough not to draw attention. The light from the overhead fixture catches the edge of her hair where it’s tied back loosely, a few strands slipping free around her face.
Does she remember like I do?
“How are you settling in?”
Jacob’s voice cuts through the thought. His hand lands on my shoulder in a firm pat as he joins me at the table.
Steph had tried to get me involved in cooking earlier. That lasted about five minutes. The closer Octavia and I worked near each other, the more obvious the tension became. She bumped into me twice, shoulder to shoulder, pretending it was accidental. I could feel the irritation behind it.
It took more restraint than I’d like to admit not to grab those brown strands of hair when she brushed past the third time, and pull her close enough to make it very clear where the line between us stood.
Fear sits in her eyes when she looks at me.
That’s probably the safest thing for both of us.
Still, there’s something else there too.
Curiosity.
Some stubborn part of her keeps testing the edge, pushing just close enough to see how far I’ll let it go.
“Alright,” I answer Jacob with a quiet exhale. “The hot water was a nice change.”
Steph glances over her shoulder as she wipes her hands on a towel. Her eyes travel down Octavia’s outfit with a small smile.
“That’s quite the look for a study session,” she says lightly.
Jacob immediately turns his attention in the same direction.
“Cheyenne picked it out,” Octavia mutters, her voice low. She keeps her eyes fixed on the counter instead of meeting either of their gazes.
Jacob chuckles under his breath. “I like that girl,” he says, though his expression shifts as he looks Octavia over. “But I sometimes wonder if she understands how much attention she draws.”
His gaze flicks briefly toward his daughter.
“And you,” he adds.
Steph swats his arm with the dish rag before he can keep going. A bowl of potatoes lands on the table with a quiet thud.
“Octavia can wear whatever she wants,” Steph snaps, her tone firm. “And so can Cheyenne. The day she went to college was the day you stopped having a say in that.”
Octavia’s mouth twitches faintly, like she’s fighting a smile. For a moment she glances in my direction.
I give her the same cold expression I’ve worn since walking through the door.
The smile disappears just as quickly as it appeared.
Was she expecting me to say something?
The last thing anyone in this room needs is me staring at her in front of her father.
I already made that mistake upstairs.
The image flashes through my mind anyway. The way the jeans fit her, the tank hugging curves she clearly isn’t comfortable drawing attention to. Even now, standing quietly at the counter, the shape of her body pulls at my attention in ways I’d rather not acknowledge.
Upstairs had been worse.
My hand brushing across those scars.
The warmth of her skin under my thumb.
The tension that followed had taken far longer to settle than I care to admit. Had I stayed in that room another minute, she would have noticed my unwelcome strain. And explaining that reaction would have been impossible.
I don’t fully understand it myself.
Even now, with her standing a few feet away chopping herbs and pretending she isn’t aware of me, the urge to watch her creeps back in.
Her hair is tied up now, exposing the line of her neck as she leans slightly over the counter. The kitchen lights soften the edges of her features in a way that makes it harder than it should be to look anywhere else.
My jaw tightens as I drag my attention back to the table.
Get a grip, you fucking idiot.
Steph slides into the chair beside Jacob, smoothing her hands over the tablecloth as if settling everyone into a normal family dinner. The kitchen smells warm, heavy with food, herbs and roasted meat mixing in the air, but the calm of the moment feels forced.
“Have you had a chance to look over your classes yet?” she asks, her attention shifting toward me.
Octavia freezes.
She’s standing near me, lowering a pan of meat onto the center of the table. The moment the word classes registers, she turns toward her mother slowly, confusion spreading across her face.
“Classes?” she repeats, like she’s hoping she misheard. “You mean… at Spokehaven University?”
Steph nods easily.
“One of the girls I used to teach has a fiancé who used to be a professor there,” she explains, reaching for a serving spoon. “He put in a good word for me and helped pull a few strings to get Silas enrolled.”
The laugh that leaves Octavia is sharp and incredulous.
“You’re fucking joking.”
Both of her parents stiffen instantly.
Her head snaps toward me, eyes narrowing in a way that holds far more heat than the irritation she showed upstairs.
“You are not coming to my school.”
The challenge sits between us like a match waiting for a spark.
The reasonable thing would be to keep quiet. Let her throw the tantrum. Let Jacob handle it.
But that part of me has never been the loudest voice in the room.
“I actually had time to look over the class list,” I say calmly, leaning back in my chair.
A lie.
“I think the university will be a nice change for me.”
Another lie.
Her jaw tightens visibly.
“If I’m going to stay here,” I continue, watching the reaction carefully, “the least you can do is show your stepbrother around campus.”
The word lands exactly the way I expected.
Her pupils widen instantly.
“You’re not my damn brother-”
“Octavia.”
Jacob’s voice cracks across the table, firm enough that she stops mid-sentence.
“Silas is part of this family now,” he says, his tone leaving very little room for argument. “If I ask you to show him respect, you will. And if I ask you to welcome him on campus, you will.”
Octavia presses her lips together hard enough to turn them pale.
A moment later she drops into the empty chair beside me. It’s the only seat left at the table.
“I didn’t ask for this,” she mutters, staring down at the plate in front of her. “I didn’t ask for-”
“Could you pass the potatoes, Steph?” I interrupt smoothly.
The shift derails her completely.
Steph starts to reach for the bowl, but Octavia gets there first. She grabs it, sliding it across the table with enough force that it scrapes loudly against the wood.
Her parents exchange a quick look.
“Did either of you even think through him coming to my school?” she continues, her frustration building again.
Under the table, her knee brushes mine.
The contact is brief.
Accidental.
But the moment it happens, my attention drops.
Her leg shifts slightly as she continues talking, unaware of the way the movement lingers against mine. The fabric of her jeans presses lightly against my knee.
I should move.
Instead, my leg stays where it is.
Octavia is still speaking, her voice tight with irritation as she gestures faintly with her fork. Her parents are focused on their plates, on the conversation she’s throwing at them.
No one is watching the space beneath the table.
Slowly, deliberately, my hand lowers from the edge of the table to my lap.
For a moment I hesitate.
Then my fingers shift sideways, brushing against the side of her thigh.
The reaction is immediate.
Octavia’s words cut off mid-sentence.
Her shoulders stiffen, her breath catching just enough that I feel the change beside me, her fork freezing halfway to her plate.
My hand doesn’t move away.
Instead, my palm settles more firmly against her thigh, the pressure light but unmistakable through the denim. My fingers curl slightly, holding her there in place.
Across the table, Steph looks up.
“Were you going to finish that rant?” she asks, curious.
Octavia’s mouth opens slightly, but nothing comes out.
Under the table, my grip tightens just enough to remind her I’m still there, my thumb shifting faintly along the side of her leg, the small movement hidden completely by the tablecloth.
Her breathing grows uneven.
For a moment I wait.
Tell them.
Tell them exactly what your stepbrother is doing under the dinner table.
Tell your parents why you suddenly can’t talk.
The opportunity sits right there in front of her.
Instead, she swallows.
“No,” she says quietly.
The word is softer than anything she’s said tonight.
“I’m done.”
She reaches for the bowl of potatoes again, pulling it closer to her plate as if the moment never happened. Her shoulders remain rigid, her eyes locked firmly on the table.
For a moment, confusion pulls at the edge of my thoughts.
She should have reacted differently.
Most people would have. A sharp accusation. A chair shoved back. Something loud enough to drag her parents’ attention under the table where my hand had been resting against her thigh.
Instead, Octavia lifts her gaze, looking directly at me.
There is nothing soft about the way she studies me. Her eyes are steady, sharp enough to make it feel like the roles in the room have quietly shifted. The anger she carried a moment ago has cooled into something more controlled.
“You like games, Silas?” she asks.
The question is simple on the surface, but the tone carries weight. For the first time tonight I’m the one who has to pause before answering. There’s no embarrassment in her expression, no flustered panic like I expected.
Just focus.
“Depends on the type,” I answer quietly.
Under the table my fingers tighten slightly against her leg before I even realize I’m doing it. The contact is firm enough to remind her the moment hasn’t disappeared just because the conversation above the table continued.
Her reaction is not what I expect.
Instead of recoiling, her hand moves.
Slowly, her fingers brush across the back of mine. The touch is light at first, almost curious, the faintest glide of skin over skin. The sensation is enough to send a sharp warmth up my arm, settling somewhere in my chest in a way that’s difficult to ignore.
She doesn’t look down. She doesn’t acknowledge the movement.
“Well,” she says softly, still focused on the table as if this conversation exists only in the air above it, “in this family we love games.”
Her hand shifts fully over mine then, her fingers closing around my wrist with surprising steadiness, not frantic or desperate but controlled. With a firm, quiet pressure she lifts my hand away from her leg, guiding it back toward my side.
“And I rarely lose.”
The words are quiet enough that only I hear them.
A moment later she releases me completely, returning her attention to the meal, lifting her fork like nothing unusual happened. The movement is so smooth that her parents barely notice the pause in her earlier frustration.
Steph and Jacob exchange a small look across the table, sensing tension but unable to place its source.
Octavia thinks I did it to provoke her.
Maybe part of me did.
But that wasn’t the only reason.
I wanted to see what she would do. Whether she would shrink away or expose me.
Instead, she met it directly.
The question presses again against the back of my mind again.
Does she remember?
Jacob clears his throat, unaware of the quiet shift that just happened between us.
“Maybe I can suggest something,” he says, leaning back slightly in his chair. “Octavia, you barely go out anymore unless it’s for class. And Silas hasn’t exactly had much of a chance to meet people.”
His eyes move between us.
“Why don’t you both go to that study session tonight? It might help Silas meet some of his future classmates.”
I start to speak out of habit, ready to shut the idea down.
“Oh, I’m sure Octavia would never-”
“Fine.”
The word interrupts me sharply.
Octavia doesn’t even look at her father when she says it. Her voice is tight but controlled, the earlier heat now tucked carefully beneath the surface.
“If I can’t get rid of him,” she says, pushing a piece of food across her plate with her fork, “I might as well drag him along.”
Then she turns toward me.
Her eyes meet mine again. This time there’s the faintest hint of something else in her expression, the corner of her mouth lifting slightly, not quite a smile but close enough to feel intentional.
“Maybe there’ll be games at Kadin’s.”
The room seems to quiet around us for a second.
I watch her carefully now, not the casual glance I’ve been forcing myself to maintain since sitting down, but the kind of attention reserved for something that deserves it.
Alright, Octavia Marrow.
You want to play games with me?
Fine.
Let’s see how long you can keep up.