Chapter 6
Octavia
Any rational person would have screamed the moment Silas’s hand slid onto their thigh like that.
That’s the part I can’t stop circling back to.
I should have screamed.
For as long as I can remember, letting people touch me has been a battle. Even harmless contact can turn my chest tight and my thoughts frantic. Too close. Too sudden. Too much. My body has always reacted before my mind could catch up, panic clawing its way up my spine.
Steph made the rules clear the moment the Marrows took me in.
Tell us if someone touches you.
Tell us if someone makes you uncomfortable.
Tell us everything.
She said it gently, like she was building a safety net beneath me…and I promised I would.
So by every rule I’ve lived under for the last four years, I should have shoved my chair back and shouted across the table. I should have pointed under the table and let the entire moment explode in front of my parents.
Silas’s hand on my leg would have been enough to get him kicked out.
More than enough.
And the thing that unsettles me most is that I know exactly why he did it.
He wanted an exit.
Silas Corvin is a man who knows how to burn bridges quickly. Touching me like that, under my parents’ dinner table, would have been the easiest way to guarantee they sent him straight back where he came from.
He handed me the match.
In every other version of this moment, I would have lit it without hesitation.
But when his hand settled on my thigh, something in me froze.
Not from fear.
From the opposite.
I can still feel the weight of it. The warmth of his palm pressing through the fabric of my jeans, like he was anchoring himself there. The contact should have made my skin crawl.
Instead, it did something far more dangerous.
It quieted the noise in my head.
For a second, just a second, everything else disappeared. The clatter of silverware, my father’s voice, the tension in the room. All of it faded behind the strange, grounding heat of his hand.
Like touching an open flame you know will burn you.
The kind of heat you should pull away from immediately, but don’t.
When our eyes met across the table, I saw the moment he expected me to react, or maybe betray him, but, some stubborn part of me refused to give him what he wanted.
Now he probably thinks I played along for my own reasons. That I fed into whatever twisted little game he started.
Because that’s how people like Silas operate.
Everything is a test.
Everything is manipulation.
Push someone far enough and they’ll prove they’re just as broken as you are.
Maybe that’s what he was trying to do.
Corner the fucked-up adopted daughter until she snapped loud enough to remind everyone he isn’t the only disaster sitting at this table.
And maybe he’s right.
Maybe there are more cracks in this house than anyone wants to admit.
But giving him the satisfaction of knowing that?
That’s the one thing I refuse to do.
My fingers keep tapping against the steering wheel, the rhythm uneven and restless. The dashboard clock glows back at me in dull blue numbers.
6:30 PM.
Kadin’s party starts at seven.
The sky is dipping into that soft indigo that settles just before full night, the neighborhood quiet except for the hum of my engine. My phone lights up again in the cupholder, another message from Cheyenne or Maria asking where I am, whether he’s coming, whether I survived dinner.
Where the hell is Silas?
Leaning forward, I press the horn, not once but twice, then again for good measure.
The sharp blast slices through the quiet street.
Impatience crawls under my skin, but beneath it is something heavier.
The thought of being trapped in this car with him after what happened at dinner twists in my stomach in a way I don’t want to think about.
Unlocking my phone instead of thinking about it, I scroll through my playlists, landing on The Red Clay Strays, turning the volume up higher than necessary. The music fills the car, vibrating faintly through the seats, giving my thoughts something to fight against.
It was just a game.
That’s what I keep telling myself.
Silas pushes boundaries because he wants control. Because he wants reactions. Because if he can make me uncomfortable, then he’s not the only one carrying damage in this house.
That’s all it was.
Except it didn’t feel like that.
My grip tightens around the wheel as the memory creeps back in anyway. The weight of his hand on my thigh. The steady pressure of his fingers. The way he didn’t rush it, didn’t fumble or hesitate. He held me there like he had every right to.
Worse than that, I didn’t want him to move.
That realization makes my chest tighten.
Why did it ground me instead of unraveling me? Why did it make every carefully built rule in my head blur at the edges?
A sudden thud against my window jerks me out of my spiral.
Turning sharply just as Silas’s palm slides down the glass, he’s leaning in slightly, his face partially shadowed beneath the brim of a dark baseball cap.
The hoodie from earlier is gone. In its place is a dark brown flannel with the sleeves rolled up, revealing the inked lines of his forearms. A fitted dark shirt stretches across his torso, the fabric pulling slightly at his chest and shoulders when he moves.
The look isn’t softer.
It’s sharper.
If this is an attempt to look less threatening, it fails completely.
Pushing the door open, I step out, staring at him. “What?”
“I’m driving.”
He doesn’t phrase it like a suggestion. It’s a decision already made.
Before I can react, his hand catches the hem of my shirt and tugs, pulling me backward just enough that I lose my footing. The motion isn’t violent, but it’s strong. My balance falters as he slides into the driver’s seat in the same fluid movement.
“You are not driving my fucking car,” I snap, reaching instinctively for the keys still in the ignition.
Lunging across the center console to stop him, I twist toward the ignition. In the scramble, I tip forward, my body half sprawled across his lap, one knee pressed into the seat, the other leg still awkwardly outside the car.
The movement is abrupt enough that we both freeze.
The music continues to hum through the speakers, now softer against the sudden stillness between us, my breath coming faster than I want it to as his hand slides to the small of my back.
Not rough.
Not pushing me away.
Just resting there.
The contact is warm, his palm spanning the curve of my waist through the thin fabric of my top, my body reacting before my mind does, a sharp inhale catching in my throat.
Slowly, I turn my head toward him.
Up close, he looks different. The hard lines of his face are clearer, the faint pale scars along his temples visible beneath the low brim of his cap. His eyes are darker than I remembered at the table, flecks of green flashing in them when they catch the light.
They aren’t amused.
They aren’t teasing.
They’re focused.
For a second neither of us moves. My weight is still partly on him, my hand braced against his shoulder as I try to regain some sense of control over the situation.
His fingers press more firmly against my lower back, not enough to hurt, just enough to remind me exactly where his hand is.
The heat of it spreads slowly, sinking into my spine in a way that feels far more dangerous than the chaos under the dinner table.
My gaze drops before I can stop it.
The movement is instinctive, but I know he notices. His eyes track it immediately, flicking from the scar along my cheek down to my mouth. Forcing my voice to work, I don’t allow the moment to stretch any further.
“Do you even have a license?” The question comes out sharper than intended, my breath still uneven.
Silas tilts his head slightly, like the question genuinely amuses him.
“Does it matter?” he replies, his voice calm in that infuriating way he seems to do everything.
His hand leaves my back then, nudging me away from him just enough that I’m forced to shift my weight and climb off his lap.
The loss of contact is immediate, like stepping away from a heat source you didn’t realize you were leaning into.
“Only becomes a problem if I get caught,” he adds, adjusting his seat.
Crossing my arms tightly over my chest, I step back onto the pavement, the house looming behind us, lights glowing through the windows where my parents are probably still cleaning up dinner. The normalcy of it makes the situation feel even more ridiculous.
“If I tell them,” I say, nodding toward the house, “they’ll make you stay home.”
The words are meant as a threat.
Silas just exhales through his nose like I’ve disappointed him.
“A narc and a goody-two-shoes,” he mutters, shaking his head. “I’ve got to say, I expected more from you.”
My foot taps against the asphalt as I stare at him, the frustration sitting hot in my chest.
“You can go ahead and rat me out if you want,” he continues, reaching for the steering wheel like the conversation is already over. “But I’ll remember it.”
He glances at me then, one brow lifting slightly.
“And I don’t think you want to be on my bad side.”
I try to hold my ground, to pretend the warning doesn’t land somewhere deeper than it should.
It does anyway.
The quiet confidence in his voice rattles me more than the words themselves.
The clock on the dashboard flips to 6:49 pm.
Silas doesn’t rush me. He simply waits, one hand resting loosely on the wheel while the other taps lightly against the gearshift. The patience in the gesture feels calculated, like he knows exactly how few options I have.
My jaw tightens.
“If you total my car,” I finally say, leaning down toward the open door, “I will kill you.”
The corner of his mouth lifts.
Not a wide smile, just the faintest curve that makes it clear he enjoys the threat more than he should.
Reaching over, he turns up the volume knob, music flooding the car, louder this time.
“I’ll hold you to it.”
The drive stretches out in heavy silence.