Chapter 116: What Are These Scars On Your Neck?
The rain falls in sheets beyond the glass, a steady, relentless whisper that fills the space between heartbeats. The car cuts through the night, headlights carving pale tunnels through the dark, and my hands are locked on the steering wheel—too tight, knuckles white beneath the leather.
The city blurs past, smeared into streaks of gold and red, but I don’t see it. I don’t see anything except the road ahead and the question Sum planted in my skull like a splinter I can’t dig out.
Ellis... do you think Silas might be doing drugs?
Drugs?
Him?
Nonsense.
The word scrapes against the inside of my chest like something foreign, something that doesn’t belong.
I know him—or at least, I’ve started to.
The way he moves through a room like he’s afraid of taking up too much space. The way his eyes crinkle at the corners when he smiles, soft and unguarded.
The way he waits. Always waits. For me to come home. For me to notice him. For me to choose him.
He’s not hiding that kind of darkness. I would know. It doesn’t fit.
But the scars don’t fit either.
And they’re real. I saw them.
Purple and deep, scattered across his neck like a map of something I don’t understand. They weren’t accidental. They weren’t careless. They were placed there with purpose.
And that purpose terrifies me more than I want to admit.
I should just ask him. Directly. Whatever those scars are.
The car slows. Stops. The engine dies with a low, tired hum, like it’s given up on the night.
I sit for a moment, my hands still gripping the wheel, staring through the rain-streaked windshield at the house. The lights are on—warm, golden, spilling through the glass walls like an invitation. The rain has softened, but it hasn’t stopped. It falls in a steady, persistent mist, clinging to everything, soaking the world in silence.
I step out. The cold hits me first—sharp, immediate, a contrast to the heat still coiled in my chest. My steps are quick, deliberate, cutting through the damp air. The gravel crunches beneath my shoes, each sound swallowed by the soft hiss of rain. The door unlocks with a soft click, and I step inside.
Warmth greets me immediately, chasing away the chill of the rain-soaked night. The house smells like him—faint, familiar, something I’ve started to recognize without meaning to. I shrug off my coat, drape it over the back of the couch, and let my feet carry me toward the kitchen.
I see him as soon as I enter.
Silas sits at the dining table, his hands resting on the polished wood, his head cradled in his arms. Sleeping. His face is turned slightly to the side, his features softened by the dim light, his lips parted just a fraction. The dinner is laid out before him—perfectly arranged, untouched.
I stop.
Something in my chest tightens—a quiet ache that spreads through my ribs like slow water.
I stand there for a long moment, watching him.
The rise and fall of his shoulders. The way his hair falls across his forehead, a few strands curling against his temple. His face is flushed—too warm, too pink, a feverish stain spreading across his cheeks.
My steps slow as I approach. His breathing is even but shallow, as if each breath costs him something. The warm light casts soft shadows across his face, illuminating the delicate curve of his jaw and the faint tremble of his lashes.
My fingers rise, brushing the hair from his eyes. His skin radiates heat beneath my touch.
Too warm.
You’re unwell.
Why won’t you just admit it?
I lean down and press a soft kiss to his temple. My lips linger for a moment, feeling the heat beneath his skin, the faint pulse of a fever that shouldn’t be there. The scent of him—clean, warm, familiar—fills my senses.
My stubborn little cherry tomato.
What am I going to do with you?
I slide one arm beneath his knees and the other around his waist. I lift him gently, easily. He’s lighter than he should be.
His head lolls against my chest, his breath warm through the fabric of my shirt. I can feel the steady rise and fall of his breathing against my own.
His eyes flutter open. Blink. Find mine. His gaze is hazy and unfocused, like someone trying to surface from deep water.
Then he looks down at himself. At the way I’m holding him. His hand rises, tapping lightly against my chest—a silent question.
I look at him, my voice low and steady.
"Seems like someone needs a lesson in being stubborn."
His gaze stays on me—confused, searching, too tired to resist. After a moment, his hand falls back to his side in quiet surrender.
I carry him to my room.
The light is dim, soft as the afterglow of a dying fire. I lay him down carefully, the sheets rustling beneath him. His head sinks into the pillow, but his eyes never leave mine, as if I’m the only thing in the room worth looking at.
I lean over him, holding his gaze.
"Why won’t you just admit you’re not okay?"
He blinks, but doesn’t answer. His lips part, then close again. But something in his eyes shifts. Something vulnerable. Something that looks like guilt.
I straighten. "I’ll get some cold patches..."
Before I can turn, his hand catches mine. I freeze. The words die in my throat.
I look down at him.
His eyes are wet now—bright, catching the dim light like pools of amber, shining with something unspoken. Something raw. Something desperate.
His grip is light, but determined. He tugs gently. A silent plea. A question I can’t refuse.
I sit beside him without a word.
My fingers find my tie. I loosen it slowly, pulling it free and letting it fall to the floor with a soft whisper. I undo the top buttons of my shirt one by one. The fabric falls open, exposing pale skin to the cool air as I shift closer to him.
Silas sits up slowly, never letting go of my hand.
Then he moves into me without hesitation, his head finding its place against my shoulder. His breath brushes my neck, warm.
Too warm. Like his body is burning from the inside out.
I adjust my hold, pulling him closer and settling him comfortably against my chest. His fingers curl into my shirt, gripping the fabric as though he’s afraid I’ll disappear.
My voice is barely above a whisper.
"You want me to stay?"
He nods slowly. His hair brushes against my shirt, soft and damp with sweat.
I lean back and tug the blanket up over us, covering him completely. A low shiver runs through his body, barely perceptible, but I feel it—a tremor that travels from his shoulders to his fingertips, settling somewhere between us.
The room is dim. Quiet. The rain taps against the glass wall like a distant lullaby, soft and unhurried. The golden light from the bedside lamp pools across the sheets, catching the edges of his face, the curve of his jaw, the hollow of his throat.
My gaze drifts to his neck, against my will.
The needle marks are there—deep, dark, purple bruises scattered across his skin like secrets he’s been keeping.
What are these?
I should ask.
But he’s tired, feverish, and the words feel too heavy for this fragile quiet.
I should wait.
He’s not well.
But the question burns in my throat, refusing to be swallowed.
My fingers slide from his shoulder to his neck, tracing the scars lightly, barely grazing his skin, as though I’m afraid of hurting him.
"Silas..."
His breath hitches slightly, but he doesn’t move.
My voice is soft, almost swallowed by the rhythm of the rain.
"What are these scars on your neck?"
Comments