Chapter 11
Silas is dressed in all black as he strolls into the Witch’s Brew like he owns the place, looking like every woman’s worst decision.
A heavy wool coat hangs open over a fitted shirt, and the wind has left his dark hair just messy enough to look effortless.
It’s infuriating how gorgeous he is. One of life’s greatest injustices is that people who are ugly on the inside aren’t just as ugly on the outside.
A woman is on his arm.
I blink, taken aback.
It’s the first time I’ve seen him with anyone.
And this woman… she’s breathtaking. Tall and slender, wrapped in a cream cashmere coat belted neatly at the waist. She moves through the room with the calm assurance of someone who knows exactly how beautiful they are.
Pale skin the color of winter snow. Light hazel eyes.
Dark hair that falls in glossy waves. Huge diamond studs sparkling on her earlobes.
The whole effect appears effortless but in the way that requires enormous amounts of money.
Silas guides her toward the lacrosse table, his palm resting lightly against the small of her back.
Van stands to greet them, as does the rest of the table.
Instantly, two of the younger players give up their seats for Silas and the woman.
Silas pulls out a chair for her, and she sits in it with a graceful tilt of her head, as if men have been moving furniture for her since birth.
Drinks appear almost magically before them, and Silas takes the seat beside her, stretching one arm comfortably along the back of her chair.
His girlfriend, then?
The realization shouldn’t bother me. Silas is an arrogant asshole with an almost pathological need to antagonize me. He can date every beautiful woman in New England for all I care.
As if he hears the lie in my head, he looks across the room and his eyes find mine. The corners of his mouth lift, and for one suspended heartbeat, the distance between us seems to vanish. I stare back, momentarily stunned.
Holy shit. Silas Blackhollow is smiling.
At me.
Some kind of temporary insanity takes hold of me, and I forget everything he is and smile back.
To be fair, I don’t think I could resist even if I tried, because his smile… it’s absolutely breathtaking. It eases the cruel lines of his face and warms the darkness behind his black eyes, transforming him into a completely different man.
He actually looks nice when he smiles.
But then he notices Rowan beside me and whatever weird moment just passed between us vanishes.
Disgust rolls over his face. The woman at Silas’s side follows his gaze, her eyes landing on me.
She takes her time looking me over, from my face to my clothes and back again, taking inventory without any attempt to conceal it.
While she studies me, Silas whispers something in her ear and she laughs.
“Should we get another round?” Rowan asks, rising, the empty pitcher in his hand. “Maybe some shots too? My treat.”
“Spoken like a man with inherited wealth,” Jonah says, lifting his nearly empty glass. “By all means, Ashcroft. Have at it.”
Rowan looks at me. “Help me carry the drinks back?”
“I thought rich men paid people for that sort of thing.”
“Sorry. It’s my butler’s day off,” he jokes.
At least… I think he’s joking.
We quickly find a spot at the crowded bar.
People are packed in from edge to edge, but a group of students from SFU quickly move aside to let Rowan in when they see him come over.
They bump fists with him and give him high-fives, everyone calling out his name eagerly, just like when we were walking through town.
It’s funny.
People react so differently to him than they do to Silas. They both wield the same kind of influence that comes with good looks, wealth, and family prestige, but Rowan wins people over with effortless charm while Silas rules using fear.
While we wait, Rowan leans against the polished wood of the bar and turns toward me. “I don’t want to sound presumptuous, but you seem like you’re actually having fun tonight.”
I smile despite myself. “I am,” I admit. “It still doesn’t mean I trust you, though.”
“I understand. But maybe one day soon.”
Rowan is funny and charming and attractive in a way that feels manageable.
I didn’t come to Salem’s Fall looking for romance, and I certainly don’t believe in love—not the kind people write songs about anyway.
Romantic love is just obsession with better branding.
It makes intelligent people reckless, then leaves everyone else to clean up the wreckage.
But sex is different.
A distraction might even be healthy. A few drinks and a night with a man who looks like Rowan Ashcroft could do wonders for my stress levels.
Rowan reaches for the tray as the bartender sets two pitchers and a dozen shots in front of us, but another hand gets there first.
“Thanks for the round, sport,” Silas says, holding the tray and giving Rowan a cold, careful smile. The woman in cream stands beside him, leaving barely an inch between them. Up close, she’s even more striking. Her features are delicate but not soft, her gaze cool and sharp.
Rowan’s smile stiffens. “Buy your own drinks, Blackhollow.”
“I could.” Silas glances at the tray and then shrugs. “But this is far more convenient.”
“You’ve always confused convenience with entitlement,” Rowan says.
Silas’s dark eyes flash. “And you’ve always confused charm with permission.”
“Now, now, boys. Settle down.” The woman with Silas regards them with faint amusement before turning to me. “You must be Jacqueline Mercer.”
I frown. “You know who I am?”
“Of course. I always make a point of knowing who enters my town,” she says.
“Your town?”
She smiles at me with faint condescension. “One develops a certain… proprietary feeling after enough generations here in Salem’s Fall.”
I understand instantly. She must be from one of the old families in town. A founding family?
Definitely not a Blackhollow, judging by the way she’s hanging all over Silas. Probably not an Ashcroft either based on the lack of warmth between her and Rowan.
A Hawthorne, then?
Her gaze sweeps over my face, assessing. “Terrible business about your roommate. That must have been awful for you,” she says, smooth but emotionless. I can’t judge if she’s being sincere or not. “How are you holding up?”
“I’m managing,” I say. “But thank you for your concern.”
“Yes, you do seem to have recovered rather quickly. It’s good you haven’t let your roommate’s death interfere with your social life.” Her gaze drifts toward Rowan, making her meaning unmistakable. “Resiliency is an important quality to have in this town.”
Rowan straightens beside me. “Now, Georgina. Be nice to my new friend.”
“I’m always nice, Rowan,” she says, giving him a suggestive look. “You should know that.”
Silas’s grip tightens almost imperceptibly around the tray.
Georgina notices. A slow, knowing smile forms on her face.
“Well, Jacqueline,” she says, resting one perfectly manicured hand on Silas’s bicep as she starts to steer him away, “it was nice to meet you. I’m afraid we must get back to our friends, but I’m sure we’ll see you around. ”
Silas lets himself be led a few steps before stopping suddenly and turning back. His jaw sets, his expression darkening as he fixes Rowan with a hard stare.
“I thought I told you to stop this nonsense,” he says to Rowan, jerking a finger in my direction. “This has consequences.”
“Yes, so you’ve said,” Rowan says, his expression never changing. “Everything does, I’m afraid.”
“And you never seem to care who pays them as long as it isn’t you,” Silas snaps.
The space between them narrows. I look from one to the other. “Uh—what are you two talking about?”
“Nothing,” Rowan says.
“Your poor judgment,” Silas says at the same time. He looks at me, something almost sympathetic in his expression, and I think I hate that even more than the hostility I usually see there. “You really should learn to recognize danger when it stands beside you.”
My spine straightens. “Is this another one of your vague threats?”
“It’s advice.”
“I don’t remember asking you,” I say.
“No. You don’t have enough sense for that.
” He studies me for a beat too long. “Remember, Mercer. A cat only gets so many lives. At the rate you’re spending yours, I’m afraid nine won’t be nearly enough.
” He turns away, carrying the drinks Rowan paid for, which we’ve both been waiting on.
Georgina follows, but not before giving me one last dismissive look.
I stare after him, anger flaring hot and immediate. I’ve never wanted to slap anyone in my entire life as much as I want to slap Silas Blackhollow.
“What was that about?” I ask Rowan.
“Just Silas being Silas. Being an asshole is something of a hobby for him.”
By the time we return to the booth after waiting for another round, Rowan has recovered enough to charm the table back into laughter.
Within minutes, he’s telling the story of a freshman last year who spent an entire semester apologizing to a supposedly haunted portrait in Wintermere Hall because some upperclassmen convinced him it reported bad behavior directly to the dean.
Micah is nearly crying. Even Jonah looks entertained.
I should be listening, but instead, my attention keeps drifting across the room to Silas.
“Stop staring,” Wren says low enough that no one else hears.
I drag my eyes back to her.
“I’m not staring. He’s a jerk.”
“Yes.” Wren grins. “But also, like, insanely hot.”
I sigh, annoyed with myself but slightly relieved. “Okay, that makes me feel better,” I say. “At least it’s not just me that needs her head examined.”
“Every straight woman in Salem’s Fall would give a kidney, maybe both, for a chance with Silas Blackhollow. It’s definitely not just you.” Wren’s expression turns serious. “But just because he’s beautiful, doesn’t mean he’s not a monster. Trust me, that’s a guy you want to stay away from.”
“I know.” I nod toward Georgina instead. “She’s very pretty, isn’t she?”
“She’s a bitch.”
The speed of her answer startles a laugh out of me.
“Who is she?”
“Georgina Alden.” Wren makes a face like she just smelled something rotten. “Legacy student. Spoiled socialite. Insufferable bully. She was born knowing which fork to use for dessert and which fork to stab you in the back with.”
“Alden? Like the campus rec center?” I ask.
“Among other things.” Wren nods. “The Aldens have donated a small fortune to the university.”
I watch Georgina smile at something Silas says.
“And they’re dating?”
“Georgina wishes they were.” Wren moves in closer.
“Everyone assumes they will eventually. They’ve known each other since kindergarten.
Their families expect them to marry,” she says.
“But then, apparently, she and Rowan had a thing last year. Major drama. But now everyone’s all chummy again, so I guess they patched things up. ”
“Does Silas… want to be with her?” I ask.
“He’s never seemed particularly happy about the prospect.”
That shouldn’t please me as much as it does.
“She’s an Alden,” Wren continues. “One of the old families. Not as powerful around here as the Blackhollows or Ashcrofts or even the Hawthornes—my branch of the family tree not included—but close enough to matter.”
Georgina catches me looking. Without breaking eye contact, she slips her hand a little higher onto Silas’s arm.
“Does everyone in this town come from some old Salem’s Fall family?” I ask.
“Not everyone, but yeah, a lot,” she says.
“Think of this place like a spooky version of Martha’s Vineyard.
Or the Hamptons. It’s an old New England town, and a lot of the same families have been here for generations.
Some try to leave, but they always come back eventually.
” Wren’s voice softens beside me. The fire crackles in the hearth, sending a brief plume of sparks up the chimney.
“One way or another, Salem’s Fall always brings its people home. ”