Chapter five

Silas Pov

The school had been lively but all I could think about the entire ride back was how every single one of those boys had looked at her.

I'd sat beside Hazel in the back seat while Leo drove, close enough that her shoulder pressed into my arm every time the car drifted over a lane marker, close enough to catch the faint sweetness of whatever she'd put in her hair that morning. Something floral. Soft. The kind of scent that had no business living this close to a man like me, and yet there it was, threading into my lungs like it had always belonged there.

I hadn't said much. I rarely do. But I'd watched.

I watched the way she fussed with the hem of her skirt at each red light, tugging it lower with two fingers, completely unaware that the gesture only drew more attention to her legs. I watched Leo glance in the rearview and say something about her curfew, and the way she rolled her eyes like she was still twelve years old in her brother's mind—which, to be fair, she probably was.

She was not twelve years old.

That fact had been abundantly clear to the pack of idiots loitering near the front steps when Leo pulled up to the curb. Three of them. Maybe four. I'd stopped counting when the tallest one—some lanky kid with the audacity of someone who'd never once had his jaw broken—had let his gaze drag over Hazel like she was something on a menu. I'd felt my hands ball into fists against my thighs. I'd felt something dark and territorial claw its way up through my chest, something I had no rational claim to, no sane justification for.

I'd felt it anyway.

Mine. The word dropped through my skull like a stone into still water, clean and certain. Back the hell up.

They hadn't heard me. Didn't matter. I filed every face away behind my eyes and said nothing, smiled at nothing, gave nothing away. That's always been the safest place for my thoughts. Behind my eyes.

I'd spent the whole morning telling myself she was Leo's little sister. That she was off-limits. That the heat coiling low in my gut every time she laughed at something on her phone was a problem I needed to get ahead of, not feed. I told myself she was a kitten—that's all—some bright-eyed, untested little thing that needed looking after. I'd looked after things before. I was good at it.

The problem was, kittens don't look at you the way Hazel sometimes looked at me. Like she was trying to figure out which part of me was sharp enough to cut her.

By afternoon, Leo was drowning.

His desk was a catastrophe of open tabs, unanswered messages, and the hollow-eyed expression of a man who'd agreed to three meetings in a single afternoon and was already behind on all of them. I stood in the doorway of his home office and watched him scrub a hand over his face for the second time in five minutes.

"Hazel needs to be picked up by three-thirty," he said, not looking up. "I'll have Marcus swing by if I can't break free—"

"Don't."

He looked up then.

I kept my voice even. Easy. I was very good at easy when I needed to be. "I'll get her. Stay on your call." I nodded at the blinking light on his phone. "You're already late."

Leo held my gaze for a moment. He was perceptive, I knew that about him, but he was also exhausted, and right now exhaustion was winning. He gave a short nod.

"She might be in a mood," he warned. "Mondays."

"I'll survive."

I left before he could add anything else. The drive to the school took eleven minutes. I knew because I watched the clock. I watched it the same way I watched everything—with a patience that had nothing to do with peace and everything to do with restraint.

Three-thirty. I turned off the engine half a block before the entrance and waited.

I saw her before I should have been able to.

It was the stillness that caught me first. Hazel was never still. She was always moving—fidgeting, laughing, typing on her phone, talking at Leo with her hands. She talked with her hands when she was excited about something, and I had catalogued this fact without meaning to, the way you catalogue the behavior of anything you've spent too long watching.

But she was still now.

She was standing near the low stone wall outside the school's side entrance, her bag dangling from one shoulder like she'd forgotten it was there, and her friend—Maya, I'd seen her before, quick-tongued and sharp in the way of girls who've learned to be—stood close beside her with a hand hovering near Hazel's elbow. The protective stance of someone managing a situation.

My jaw tightened before I'd consciously processed why.

She was pale. Not the kind of pale that comes from a bad night's sleep or skipping breakfast. This was bleached, stripped-out pale. The color of someone who'd had something taken from them in the last few hours. Her lips had a faint bluish tinge at the edges, barely visible at this distance, but I wasn't looking with regular eyes. I never did.

I pulled to the curb. The car was barely stopped when I pushed the door open.

Maya saw me first. Something shifted in her expression—relief, maybe, or the complicated calculus of a girl deciding this was no longer her problem to carry—and she stepped back, murmured something into Hazel's ear, and was gone before I'd crossed the pavement.

Hazel's eyes tracked up to meet mine, and for one unguarded second, she looked so tired it punched straight through something in my chest.

Then the familiar mask slid into place. The slight tilt of her chin. The small, unconvincing smile.

I was in front of her before she could deploy it.

My hand moved on its own—or maybe it was entirely deliberate, I didn't examine it too closely—fingers catching her jaw, tilting her face upward. Not rough. Precisely not rough. But firm enough that she couldn't look away from me.

She looked like a ghost. She looked like someone had shaken her by the throat and had the sense to leave no visible marks.

"What happened to you." It wasn't a question. It came out low, controlled, the kind of quiet that isn't gentle at all.

Her lashes fluttered. "It's nothing."

Two words. Automatic. Rehearsed in the eleven minutes it had taken me to drive here, probably.

I let the silence sit between us for one beat. Two.

"Don't lie to me, Hazel."

Something in her face fractured slightly at that—just at the edges, just enough. Her throat moved as she swallowed.

"I had an asthma attack." The words came out flat, defeated, like she'd already lost the argument she'd been planning. "It was nothing. The nurse sorted it out. I'm fine."

An asthma attack. The information landed and immediately began to rearrange itself in my mind, slotting into a framework I hadn't known I was building until just now. I released her chin but didn't step back. I needed her in my eyeline while I thought.

"Your inhaler." I kept my voice level. "Did you lose it, or didn't it work?"

"I—" She stopped.

"Which one, Hazel."

"It wasn't where it usually is." She said it carefully. Too carefully. Like she was giving me a piece of information she hadn't decided yet whether to give. "In my bag. It wasn't there."

Something cold moved through me.

"Was it there this morning?"

Silence.

That was answer enough. I looked at her—really looked, the way I'd been stopping myself from doing all day—and I could see it now. The controlled steadiness of someone who was frightened and covering it with exhaustion. The way she wasn't quite meeting my eyes, even held in place as she was, her gaze drifting just left of center.

"Is someone bothering you at this school?"

Her lips pressed together.

"Because an inhaler doesn't move itself." I said it quietly. Matter-of-factly. The way you state the weather. "And you're standing here looking like someone wrung you out and hung you up to dry, and I'm having a very hard time believing that's the whole story."

"Silas." Her voice was small. Worn thin. She finally looked at me, and the exhaustion in her eyes was the kind that lives deeper than tired—the kind that comes from holding something too heavy for too long. "I just want to go home."

For a long moment I said nothing. Then I nodded. I took the bag from her shoulder without asking and settled my hand at the small of her back, guiding her toward the car with a steadiness I was not entirely feeling. She didn't protest. That alone told me how depleted she was—Hazel Calloway protested everything as a default, and the absence of it was its own kind of alarm bell ringing clean and loud in my ears.

I settled her into the passenger seat. Closed the door with care. Then I rounded the car to the driver's side, and I stood there for just a moment with my hands on the roof, looking back at the school entrance. At the clusters of students moving in and out. At the ordinary afternoon light, indifferent and golden, laying itself over all of it.

Someone had touched what was mine. They'd done it carefully. They'd done it in a way designed to look like carelessness, like coincidence, like just one of those things. I filed that away behind my eyes. I would find out who.

I got in the car, started the engine, and didn't say another word—just reached across without looking and turned the heat up two degrees, because her hands were still cold, resting in her lap like small pale things that didn't know yet they were being protected.

She'd know eventually.