19. Silas #3
I pull into the driveway, cutting the engine.
She makes no move to get out, silence rushing in now that the music has stopped.
Her hands remain folded in her lap, fingers laced together so tightly that they have turned stark white.
Her shoulders are square but too still, like she’s holding herself perfectly upright only by force of will.
Her eyes are fixed on the porch ahead, but I can tell she isn’t really seeing it.
She’s retreating. Drawing back inside herself, bracing for whatever storm she thinks is waiting behind that door.
I make no move to get out, to encourage her forward along this path.
I know this part. I’ve lived it—the moment right before everything shifts.
The weight of what if dragging like chains at your feet.
What if this doesn’t give you the closure you need?
What if it hurts more than it heals? What if it changes how you see the world? How you see yourself?
This decision is Wren’s, and she deserves the chance to do it at her own pace. I’ll sit in this icebox of a car with her all night if I have to. If that’s what it takes for her to feel ready.
Still, I want to remind her she isn’t alone—something I sense she’s not used to. So, I reach across the console and gently wrap my hand around hers. She jumps at the contact but doesn’t pull away. Her fingers are ice cold, and so are mine. Still, I feel something electric pass between our skin.
With one finger, I trace a slow, deliberate shape into her palm: an anchor.
Her breath hitches, her eyes flicking down, like she feels it more than she sees it. Then she exhales. A deep, shaky thing from somewhere below her ribs. Her grip tightens in mine, grounding herself.
She nods. Not quickly. Not with certainty, but with resolve.
“I’m ready,” she reiterates, her voice barely above a whisper.
Giving her hand a final reassuring squeeze, I push open my door, and we climb out.
She slams the car door with more force than necessary, like if she doesn’t do it hard, she might not do it at all. I wince at the assault I know my car can’t handle, but don’t say anything. I’ll give her whatever she needs in this moment, even if it means the death of my most prized possession.
Her chin lifts, spine straightens. That steel I saw in her earlier glints beneath the uncertainty still clinging to her, yet she doesn’t look back as she marches toward the house like a woman on a mission. A warrior heading for a battlefield.
I follow her up the walk, gravel crunching beneath our feet, the porch light casting a dull golden halo across the steps. The smell of rain sits heavy in the air, but all I can focus on is the sharp thud of my own heartbeat.
This moment—her—feels too big for the space we’re about to walk into.
Inside, the house smells like pizza grease and pine cleaner.
Warm, lived-in, and a little chaotic. The living room is a mix of cracked leather and worn fabric furniture.
A sagging couch. Scuffed hardwood floors.
A weight bench takes up one corner, and Ronan’s hoodie is slung over the banister.
Laundry is piled on the sofa, textbooks are spread out on the dining room table, and an empty protein tub is being used as a trash can.
Taking one look around, I regret not giving Ronan or Lucian a heads-up so they could have tidied a little, but when I glance Wren’s way, she’s not scanning the clutter or judging the mess.
She’s still locked in. Focused.
Both Ronan and Lucian are in the living room. Lucian is sprawled on the couch in sweats and a Kings hoodie, lazily flipping through channels while Ronan paces behind him, practicing stick handling with a tennis ball and a worn-out stick.
Neither of them looks up when I enter.
It’s only when the door clicks shut behind me and her footsteps follow that the energy in the room changes. Ronan’s head lifts first, brows pinching as his gaze lands on me—then slides past to her.
The ball slips from his stick, bouncing once against the floor before rolling into the wall.
Lucian reacts slower but sharper as he first glances our way.
Then his whole body shifts. Tension slithers through him like a current.
He doesn’t say anything at first, just stares.
His eyes track every inch of her like he’s trying to figure out if she’s hurt.
If someone touched her or if something happened.
Then he’s rising, slow and deliberate.
The remote hits the couch as he stalks forward.
“What happened?” His voice is low. Dangerous.
Wren blinks, startled by the force behind his words, but she doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t back down.
Ronan is already halfway across the room, hands clenched at his sides, focus shifting between her and me, tension wound tight beneath his skin.
“Is everything okay?” he asks, his voice a contrast to Lucian’s. Softer, but no less urgent.
Wren’s lips part, then hurriedly close again. Her throat bobs with the effort of trying to speak, but no sound comes out. Her hand twitches near her side, and I see it then, the flicker of second thoughts starting to rise.
I reach into my pocket, pull out my phone, and type one line.
She wants to know the truth about that night.