Chapter 94: Can You Take Me Somewhere?
The meat on my plate is tender, soft enough to fall apart beneath the slightest pressure of my fork.
Perfectly cooked.
Almost as if someone spent hours standing over the stove, watching, waiting, making sure everything was just right.
My gaze stays on my plate. I don’t look up. I don’t need to. I can feel him watching me.
Silas sits across the table.
I don’t have to lift my head to know his eyes haven’t left me once. They’ve been fixed on me since the moment I sat down—the same way he stared at that red rose earlier.
The weight of his gaze presses against my skin. Warm. Persistent. Unshakable.
My grip tightens around my fork.
Finally, I look up.
Our eyes meet across the candlelit table, the flame flickering between us like a nervous heartbeat.
"If you’re done staring at me," I say, my voice flat, cutting through the silence, "eat your dinner."
Silas blinks.
Once. Twice.
Then nods quickly—almost sheepishly, like a child caught sneaking sweets before dinner.
That soft smile never leaves his lips. It lingers there, gentle and constant, as if it belongs to him as naturally as breathing.
He looks down at his plate.
My gaze follows.
His food sits untouched.
Exactly as it was when I first sat down. The meat still in its original cut. The vegetables still neatly arranged. The sauce still glistening beneath the golden light.
He hasn’t taken a single bite.
His movements are slow when he finally picks up his fork. Deliberate. Like each motion costs him something.
He cuts a small piece of meat—too small, barely a mouthful—and lifts it to his lips.
He eats like a child. Cautious. Uncertain. As if food is something foreign to him. I’ve noticed this before.
Many times. He doesn’t eat breakfast. He barely touches dinner.
Most of the time he just sits across from me, watching me eat, smiling that soft smile, as if my hunger is enough to satisfy his own.
My eyes stay on him.
"Don’t you like it?"
Silas doesn’t look at me. He shakes his head slowly.
No.
It’s not that he doesn’t like it. It’s something else. Something he won’t say.
He cuts another piece. Just as small. Just as slow.
I set my fork down on my plate. The soft clink echoes through the quiet room.
Then I lean forward and take his plate.
Silas blinks. Looks up at me, surprised. His fork hovers in midair, forgotten.
I take my knife and begin cutting the meat into smaller pieces.
Even bites. Easy bites.
The way food should be served to someone who struggles to feed himself.
"You’re so slow," I mutter. My knife glides through the meat with effortless ease. "At this rate, dinner will last until morning."
I set the plate back in front of him.
"Now eat."
A pause.
"Finish it."
Silas looks at me. Then down at his plate. Then back at me.
His eyes are wide. Soft. As if I’ve just done something he doesn’t know how to understand.
My voice is flat. Unmoved.
"Don’t stare. Eat."
He nods slowly. Begins eating.
I pour wine into my glass—deep crimson, almost black in the dim light. I sip slowly, letting the warmth spread through my chest.
My gaze drifts back to him.
"You don’t eat enough," I say, the words slipping out before I can stop them. "That’s why you’re so weak. That’s why those men in the club bathroom could force themselves on you."
I take another sip.
"If you ate properly, no one could touch you."
Silas chews. Looks at me. Nods again—like a child receiving a lecture he’s heard a hundred times but never really listened to.
There’s sauce on the corner of his lip. A small smear. Dark against his pale skin.
I set my glass down. The clink is soft, almost swallowed by the silence.
Without thinking—without meaning to—I lean forward.
My hand reaches across the table. My fingers brush against the corner of his mouth.
Gently. Lightly.
I wipe the sauce away.
Silas freezes.
His body goes still—completely still, like the world has stopped spinning and he’s afraid to move, afraid to breathe, afraid the moment might shatter if he so much as blinks.
"Eat carefully..." I stop.
Then realization hits me.
Cold. Sudden. Like a bucket of ice water poured over my head.
What the hell am I doing?
My fingers are on his lips. His lips—soft, warm, slightly parted in surprise. I can feel his breath against my skin.
Shallow. Quick.
I pull my hand back.
Fast. Too fast.
I look away. Straighten in my seat. Reach for my wine glass. Take a long sip. My heart is beating too loudly. I’m certain he can hear it.
What the hell is wrong with me?
Why do I keep doing things without thinking?
Silas doesn’t say anything. He just continues eating. Slowly. Quietly. As if nothing happened.
But something did happen. I just don’t know what to call it.
I sip my wine. Calm. Controlled. The mask slipping back into place.
Silas reaches for the wine bottle.
I watch from the corner of my eye as he pours the deep red liquid into his glass.
Before he can lift it to his lips, I reach across the table. My hand closes around his glass.
I take it from him. Set it aside—far from his reach.
Silas looks at me. Confused.
I pour juice into a clean glass and slide it toward him.
"I’m not carrying a drunk boy to his room again," I say, my voice flat, almost bored. "Especially one who passes out after a single glass."
Silas looks down. His cheeks flush—pink spreading across his pale skin. He takes the juice. Sips quietly.
I sip my wine. Don’t look at him.
"Why did you arrange this dinner?"
Silas looks at me, confusion flickering across his face. Then he reaches for his notebook and pencil. Writes slowly. Hands me the note.
Why? What happened?
"Didn’t you and Everic make plans to go to dinner together?"
My gaze shifts to him.
"This morning. At breakfast." A pause. "You were smiling at each other. Writing notes. Making plans."
Another pause.
"So why didn’t you go with him?"
He stays still. No movement. No attempt to write or explain. He just looks at me—those brown eyes searching my face for something.
I take another sip of wine. The warmth does nothing to loosen the knot in my chest.
"You don’t need to think too much about it." My voice is quieter now. Still sharp. "Anyway... who cares?"
Silas looks down at his notebook.His pencil hovers over the page for a moment—hesitant, uncertain.
Then he writes. His movements are slow and deliberate, like he’s choosing each word with care.
He tears the page free and hands it to me.
I take it.
You’re misunderstanding.
This morning, I asked Everic for suggestions about the best places for dinner because I wanted to take you.
Then he asked me to go with him.
A pause in the writing. A breath caught between words.
But I want to go with you.
I stare at the words.
He didn’t ask Everic to dinner.
Silas writes another note and slides it across the table. The paper scrapes softly against the wood.
I look down.
Can you take me somewhere?
My gaze lingers on the words a moment longer than necessary.
Take him out.
Somewhere.
Silas watches me. Waiting. Patient. Hopeful. His fingers move again, reaching for the pencil as if he’s about to write something else—
"Fine."
The word leaves my mouth before I can stop it.
He looks up. Surprise flickers across his face. Just for a moment. Then it’s gone.
"I’ll take you."
