Chapter 6 #2
Streetlights pass in steady intervals, casting brief flashes of gold across the windshield before disappearing behind us.
The GPS glows from the dashboard, the little arrow inching along the map in a way that makes the twenty-minute drive feel endless.
Every red light feels longer than it should. Every stop sign drags.
Silas drives with one hand on the wheel, the other resting near the gear shift. He looks relaxed, almost bored, but there’s something calculated in the way he moves the car. Firm and controlled, like he’s used to having to stay calm in situations where other people wouldn’t.
Keeping my eyes forward, even though I’m aware of him beside me, it’s impossible to fully relax.
“You still pissed about dinner?” he asks finally.
His voice is neutral, almost conversational, but the question lands heavier than that.
I don’t look at him right away. “You mean when you groped me under the table to get a reaction?”
The words feel sharp on my tongue, but I refuse to soften them.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see his fingers tap lightly against the steering wheel, long and steady. The motion is absent, like he’s thinking through something rather than reacting emotionally.
“Honestly,” he says after a moment, “I thought you’d tell them.”
That makes me turn toward him.
“Tell who?”
“Steph and Jacob,” he replies evenly. “Figured you were smart enough to take the easy out. Would’ve saved me from playing nice tonight.”
The idea clicks into place in a way that makes my stomach twist.
“So that’s what that was?” I ask quietly, confirming my suspicions. “You were trying to sabotage yourself?”
Silas’s jaw shifts slightly, his eyes still plastered to the road.
“I want out...that would’ve done it,” he says.
The admission is brief, but it carries weight.
“If you hate it so much,” I push, “why don’t you just run?”
The question slips out sharper than intended. “Why drag me into whatever mess you’re trying to make?”
Exhaling slowly through his nose, he peers at me. For a second I think he’s not going to answer.
“The Warden didn’t exactly hand me a clean slate,” he says finally. “There are conditions. If I disappear, it doesn’t just look bad. It lands me back inside.”
His hand tightens slightly on the wheel as he continues.
“They kick me out, the courts see that as proof I’m not adjusting. No ‘progress.’ No stability. That’s enough to reconsider my placement.”
The way he says placement makes it sound like a cage with softer walls.
Scoffing under my breath, I stare out the window.
“The courts are a joke,” I mutter. “They don’t care about people. They care about paperwork and appearances.”
Silence settles again, heavier this time.
“Well,” he says after a beat, his voice cooler now, “you’re lucky.”
The word sinks before I can stop it.
“Not everyone gets the luxury of their parent ending it themselves.”
The car suddenly feels smaller.
“How did you know about that?” I ask, my voice lower, my head turning slowly toward him.
He doesn’t answer immediately.
“Steph and Jacob talked on the drive to Spokehaven,” he says at last. “They filled in the blanks.”
That doesn’t make sense.
My parents don’t talk about my bio mom like that. Not openly. Not casually. Not with someone they just brought into the family.
A cold unease creeps into my chest.
“Why would they-”
Silas leans forward slightly, peering down the road ahead.
“Jesus,” he mutters, the word cutting off whatever I was about to say.
My attention shifts forward as we turn the corner.
The street is in chaos.
Cars are crammed along both sides of the road, headlights and taillights glowing in messy clusters.
Music bleeds into the night before we even reach the house, bass thudding hard enough to vibrate faintly through the windshield.
The place at the end of the block isn’t just lit up, it’s blazing.
Colored lights flash from the backyard, silhouettes moving across the lawn and porch in uneven waves.
So much for a quiet study session.
“Some small study session.” Silas sighs.
As we roll through the entrance of the gated community, it only gets worse.
Kadin’s house is surrounded. Cars packed into every available stretch of curb.
A handful of people stumble across the lawn with red solo cups in their hands, laughing too loudly.
Someone sprints past the driveway, soaked from head to toe.
There’s a pool.
Of course there’s a pool.
Scanning the driveway until I spot Cheyenne’s car, it’s parked crookedly near the side of the house, utterly empty. No Maria either. Which means they’re already inside, probably halfway into whatever this turned into.
The music pulses through my chest as Silas slows the car.
“Park away from the house,” I say quickly. “I don’t want to get boxed in. Or hit.”
He glances at me then, one hand still steady on the wheel. His tongue drags slowly over one of his canines in a way that’s entirely unnecessary.
“You don’t want to be seen with me,” he says evenly. “You can just say that.”
The accusation settles between us.
I don’t answer.
Because part of me knows he’s not wrong.
Being seen with him will spark questions. It will invite whispers. It will paint a target on both of us before we even make it through the front door.
But that’s not the only reason.
The real reason sits heavier.
Being next to him in a room like that, where everything is already blurred, loud and careless, feels dangerous in a way I don’t fully trust.
Silas waits for me to respond.
I don’t.
Instead, I inhale slowly, trying to steady myself.
“Don’t make me regret this,” I say finally.
The words come out quieter than intended, but there’s enough steel in them to mean something.
He pulls into a darker stretch of curb several houses down, cutting the engine. The music from the party still thrums in the distance, a steady pulse in the night air.
Silas lets out a soft scoff, mouth twitching.
“Careful, Octavia,” he says, turning slightly toward me. “You seem to forget who I am.”
Another reminder.
Another warning.
Turning to face him fully now, the glow from the dashboard lights the sharp lines of his face.
“I don’t forget,” I reply evenly.
I never do.
But I’m starting to wonder if he wants me afraid more than he wants me gone.
That realization unsettles me more than any threat he could make.
The second the engine cuts, I reach across him, shoving the gear fully into park, the motion forcing his hand forward on the console.
He barely reacts.
That only fuels me more.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I lean across the armrest and get in his face, my body stretching over the center console, close enough that I can feel the warmth radiating off him. Twisting the keys out of the ignition with a sharp yank, I point the metal tip straight into his chest.
“Let me make one thing clear, Silas,” I say, my voice shaking with nerves.
The key presses against the fabric of his flannel, right over his sternum. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t even blink.
“You don’t scare me,” I continue, shoving the key harder into him. “And you never will. Whatever the fuck you did, whatever headlines follow you around, it’s nothing compared to the shit I’ve seen.”
The words spill faster now, years of buried anger rising to the surface.
“You waltz into my house like you’re the only one who’s ever suffered. You test me. You push me. You play your little mind games like I’m some fragile thing you can corner and break.”
Dragging the sharp edge of the key down the center of his chest, I press hard enough that I know it must be irritating his skin beneath the fabric.
Still no reaction.
“I’m damaged goods,” I spit. “The fucked up adopted girl with the dead junkie mom. The charity case with scars, baggage and a whole tragic backstory you can throw in my face whenever it’s convenient.”
The metal scrapes faintly against the button of his flannel as I press harder.
“And now I get to explain that my new adopted brother killed his father because he couldn’t handle it anymore? Newsflash, Silas. You’re not the first kid who got roughed up. You’re not the first one who snapped. And you’re sure as hell not getting sympathy from me because it got too heavy for you.”
The words hang between us, sharp and ugly.
His hand moves so fast I don’t see it coming.
In one swift motion, he grabs my wrist.
The pressure is immediate and painful. His fingers wrap around my arm, squeezing until pain shoots up toward my elbow. The key slips from my grasp, clattering somewhere onto the floorboard.
A small yelp escapes me before I can swallow it, before his other hand comes up, covering my mouth.
The movement pushes me back slightly, but he leans forward at the same time, closing the space until our noses nearly brush. My back presses awkwardly against the steering wheel as his chest rises and falls steadily against mine, his breath warm against my skin.
The anger in his eyes isn’t loud.
It’s contained.
That’s what makes it worse.
“You have no idea what kind of monster my father was,” he whispers.
The words aren’t shouted. They’re pressed against me, low and dangerous.
“You have no idea what I had to do to survive.”
His grip on my wrist tightens just slightly before easing enough that it no longer feels like he’s trying to hurt me, just restrain me.
Outside the car, the music from the party continues to pound.
Inside, the air feels too thin to breathe.
For the first time since he touched me under that dinner table, I don’t feel grounded.
I feel like I’ve stepped too close to something that will burn.
The longer his hand stays clamped over my mouth, something inside me detonates.
It isn’t just fear of him.
It’s memory.