Chapter 21
My hand remains on the doorknob, ready to shut the door in Silas’s pretty face.
“If you’re here to threaten or scare me, you’ll need to be fast,” I say. “I’m busy.”
“Clearly.” His gaze moves past me, taking in the old books scattered across my bed and the cup of chamomile tea I forgot to drink. “Looks like an exhilarating Friday night.”
I exhale through my nose.
“What do you want, Blackhollow?”
An attractive woman from two doors down emerges from her room, glancing at Silas with blatant interest. He notices her watching him without even having to turn fully around, which is a skill I suspect he learned at puberty.
“If you would prefer to discuss The Rites in the corridor,” he says quietly, “I’m sure your neighbors would appreciate the entertainment.”
I step aside.
He enters my bedroom without triumph, which somehow irritates me more. I close the door behind him and turn the lock, then immediately unlock it, not sure which is safer.
“How’s that going?” he asks, his gaze drifting back to the open books on my bed. “Learning anything from your little stolen library?”
“You let me have them.”
“After you’d already broken into my family’s house.”
“Still—that makes you an accomplice, doesn’t it? You could’ve turned me in, but you didn’t.”
“An error in judgment.” Something flickers at the corner of his mouth, not quite a smile but close enough.
He crosses a few feet into the room and shrugs out of his coat but doesn’t sit.
The movement pulls his shirt tight across his shoulders for half a second.
His sleeves are pushed back over his muscular forearms—forearms that have no business looking that good on a man who spends most of his time being cruel.
I look away before he catches me staring, but am not entirely sure I succeed.
“So… to what do I owe the honor of your visit?” I ask.
“I’m here to make you an offer.”
Coming from anyone else, I might be curious. Coming from the man who’s spent weeks acting like he can’t stand me, it sounds more like the beginning of a trap—even if he did save my life during the last trial.
“That sounds ominous,” I say. “I don’t think I’m interested.”
His gaze settles on me, cool and direct.
“You won’t survive The Rites alone.”
“You came all the way to my room just to insult me?”
“It’s not an insult. It’s simply a fact,” he says. “You’ll be dead before the games are over.”
I wince at the familiar edge of his voice, sharp enough to cut and maim.
The Silas who saved my life in the tunnels and helped me in Lucien’s house I don’t understand.
The one who kissed me at the Blackhollow Ball I understand even less.
But this version of Silas is almost reassuring.
Arrogant. Cruel. Predictable in his refusal to be kind.
“Thanks for the illuminating observation. You can leave now.”
“You didn’t let me finish.”
I should shove him out the door. Instead, I hesitate.
“Let me help you,” he says, and everything inside me stills.
I study his face for some sign of mockery but find none. “You’re screwing with me.”
“I can assure you I’m not.” He pauses, his gaze holding mine a beat too long. “If I were screwing with you, you’d know it.”
Wait.
Did he just—
No. Silas Blackhollow doesn’t flirt.
Silas insults, intimidates, and mostly ruins my life while looking supremely satisfied about it. Silas does not say things like you’d know it in a low, unhurried voice like he’s thought about doing unspeakable things to me and what that might feel like.
But then why does heat pulse low in my stomach, sharp and unwelcome, and my legs suddenly feel distinctly less reliable than they did thirty seconds ago?
I clear my throat, praying my voice sounds steadier than I feel. “You just won the First Trial. Why would you want to help your rival?”
“I want to form an alliance.”
His words are so unexpected, I almost laugh. “With me? Yeah, right,” I say. “You’ve spent months threatening me, lying to me, and making every effort to drive me out of Salem’s Fall.”
“To be fair, I did not make every effort.” Wicked amusement glints in his eyes.
“Silas—”
“You are tenacious, and… determined.” He says it reluctantly, almost painfully, like the words are being physically extracted from him.
“But that will not be enough to get you through The Rites. You need information. Things you cannot learn simply by being stubborn. You need someone who understands how the trials work, what rules to follow and what rules to break, and how these people respond when they’re cornered. ”
I let the silence stretch, watching him. The compliment sits strangely between us, sincere enough to unsettle me. But I know Silas didn’t seek me out to boost my confidence. Whatever brought him here, it isn’t generosity.
“Perhaps I do,” I say. “But you’re not here for what I need. What is it, exactly, that you need from me?”
Silas doesn’t answer immediately. He looks nervous, which is absurd, because this is Silas Blackhollow. Even under the cemetery with the tunnels collapsing around us, he never lost his composure.
“You said you want an alliance, but an alliance requires honesty,” I say, taking a step closer. “You don’t do favors. You certainly don’t do them for me.” I pause. “So what do you get out of this?”
“You’re… intelligent. Perceptive,” he says. “You see patterns other people miss.”
“Wow. Flattery.” I rock back on my heels. “That’s new from you.”
“It was not intended as flattery.”
I resist the urge to roll my eyes. “Of course not.”
“You reached the final chamber before anyone else,” he continues. “Without training. Without experience. You recognized the structure of the tunnels faster than claimants who have studied The Rites since childhood.” He pauses, his jaw tightening. “I think you could be… useful to me.”
Useful.
It’s an interesting choice of words. Silas does not give praise accidentally. If he says I am useful, he has evaluated me and found something worthy. I hate how much I enjoy hearing it. I don’t want to be like everyone else in this town who cares about this man or what he thinks of them.
“I’m touched. Really,” I say sarcastically. “But I don’t see how this could possibly work. I could never trust you.”
His expression shifts toward impatience. “What exactly have I done to earn your distrust?”
I stare at him.
“Are you serious?”
“Please.” A hint of dry amusement slips into his voice. “Enlighten me.”
I let out a disbelieving laugh. “Are you fucking insane? You and your sadistic friend Van sliced my arm open and knocked me unconscious!” Fresh anger flares as the memory comes rushing back.
“Do you really not remember, or are you in the business of assaulting women so often that the incidents blur together?”
Silas goes very still.
“I did no such thing.”
“Someone did.”
“I know that.” His gaze hardens. “But do you really believe that was me?”
“Then who was it?”
“No one was supposed to touch you,” he says, his mouth pulling tight, the words clipped, almost angry. “The plan was to frighten you. Nothing more. You were meant to believe Salem’s Fall was dangerous and leave.”
“So you admit it was your idea?”
His eyes meet mine without hesitation. “Yes.”
The admission settles between us.
“So let me get this straight,” I say slowly. “You had me drugged. Dragged into the woods. Bound. Threatened. Cut. Hit.” I give him a pointed look. “But I should be comforted because you intended it to be a pleasant kidnapping?”
“I did not say you should be comforted, only that I never intended for you to be hurt,” he says.
“Van acted without permission. He enjoys fear and pain. Once you fought back, he stopped seeing you as a warning and started seeing you as sport. He crossed a line.” Something almost like remorse flickers across his face.
“I… do regret I didn’t stop it in time.”
The memory rearranges itself, and I see it again with fresh eyes, imagining Silas as something other than the villain for once.
The men in the woods arguing. The one in the black quilted jacket ordering the one with the knife to back off. The blow to my head. Darkness. Someone carrying me. Brushing the hair from my face in the infirmary, pleading with me to leave. Then helping me to my room.
“It was you,” I say, finally putting it together. “You told Van to stop. You’re the one who took me to the infirmary. You took me home.”
“Yes.”
“But I thought Rowan—”
“Rowan went straight from the woods to his dinner date.” He cuts me off, disgust entering his voice.
“He certainly did not carry you all the way across campus and wait for hours in the infirmary until the nurse confirmed you could leave. He did not then help you home, tuck you into bed, and watch you all night to make sure you were all right.”
This new version of that night’s events leaves me strangely off-balance.
“You did all that?” I ask. “But then why did you leave without telling me?”
“You would have reacted badly if you woke and found me in your bedroom.”
Well… he had a point there.
Still, none of that means he’s a good guy. I can’t make a bargain with someone like him. I need to tell him to leave. I know I need to.
I’m just not sure I want to.
“Why did you lie about knowing Josh?”
I study the dark circles beneath his eyes, the rigid set of his shoulders, the way he holds himself as if bracing for a blow he’s already decided he deserves. When he speaks again, his voice is quieter.
“I was trying to keep you from making the same mistakes.”
“What mistakes?”
“Josh and I were friends, that part is true. I liked him. Respected him.” Silas moves closer, not enough to threaten, but enough for me to see how much he’s affected by this conversation.
“But then he became obsessed with the Veil. Every puzzle led to another question, every answer convincing him there was something deeper. I told him to stop digging. I tried to keep him from the Veil and its ceremonies.”
“Did Lucien hurt him? Was it one of the other Houses?”
Silas’s body goes rigid. “I don’t know.”
“What do you know?”