Chapter three

The morning light filtered through the sheer curtains of Hazel’s bedroom, casting soft, honeyed streaks across the hardwood floor. Usually, Hazel loved the quietude of the early hours, but today, the air in the house felt different—charged with a static electricity that made the fine hairs on her arms stand up. Silas was here. He was just down the hall, and the mere thought of him being a permanent fixture in their home sent a flutter of panicked excitement through her chest.

She stood before her full-length mirror, smoothing the fabric of her cream knit top. It was a soft, form-fitting piece that hugged her curves in a way that felt both modest and dangerously feminine. She paired it with high-waisted caramel trousers that elongated her legs, cinching at her waist to emphasize her delicate frame. She brushed her vibrant red hair until it shone like polished mahogany, letting the waves cascade down her back. She wanted to look put-together—professional for her university classes—but a treacherous part of her mind wondered if Silas would notice the way the cream color made her skin glow.

A sharp knock at the door broke her trance. "Haze? You ready? Breakfast is getting cold, and we’ve got a schedule to keep."

Leo. Her brother’s voice was the anchor that usually kept her grounded, but today, she felt like a kite caught in a gale. She grabbed her bag and stepped out into the hallway, the scent of coffee and sizzling bacon greeting her. As she entered the kitchen, she saw Leo already plated up, looking every bit the doting older brother. But her eyes instinctively flickered to the empty chair at the breakfast nook. Silas wasn't there yet.

"You look nice, Pip," Leo said, using his childhood nickname for her as he nudged a plate of eggs toward her. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, familiar plastic device. His expression shifted from playful to sternly protective. "But before we go anywhere... inhaler. Now."

Hazel sighed, though there was no real heat in it. "Leo, I’m fine. I haven't had a wheeze in days."

"And I'd like to keep it that way," Leo countered, holding the inhaler out like a royal scepter. "The humidity is up today, and you know how that campus walk is. Two puffs, Hazel. Don't make me pull the 'big brother' card."

Hazel took the inhaler, feeling his watchful eyes on her. She shook it, exhaled, and took the first puff, the cool mist hitting the back of her throat with a familiar medicinal tang. She waited a beat, then took the second. Leo nodded in satisfaction, tucking the device back into her bag's side pocket himself. "Good. I don't need you fainting on me because you're too stubborn to breathe."

A heavy footfall sounded on the stairs, and Hazel’s heart performed a frantic somersault. Silas entered the kitchen like a storm front moving into a clear valley. He was dressed simply in a black t-shirt that strained against his broad shoulders, his muscular arms on full display. The intricate ink of his tattoos—the dark scales of the snake, the jagged lines of his history—seemed to pulse in the morning light. He didn't say a word, merely grabbed a piece of toast from the center of the table, his dark eyes locking onto Hazel for a fraction of a second too long.

"Ready to head out, Silas?" Leo asked, oblivious to the sudden drop in the room’s oxygen levels. "I’m dropping Haze off at the psych building first."

"I'll ride with you," Silas said, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that vibrated in Hazel’s marrow. "I’ve got some things to handle near the campus anyway."

***

The car ride was an exercise in sensory overload. Usually, Hazel sat in the front passenger seat, but Leo had moved his gym bag and a stack of files there. "Jump in the back with Silas, Haze," Leo said casually, as if he weren't sentencing her to a beautiful, claustrophobic torture.

She slid into the backseat, pressing herself as close to the window as possible. Silas climbed in after her, his sheer bulk making the spacious sedan feel like a cramped elevator. As he settled in, the scent of him hit her—a potent, intoxicating blend of cedarwood, cold air, and something uniquely masculine. It was an earthy, grounded smell that made her feel dizzy.

As Leo pulled out of the driveway, Silas shifted, his long legs stretching out. His knee brushed against hers—just a momentary contact through the fabric of her caramel trousers—but it felt like a brand. Hazel stopped breathing for a second, her fingers clenching the strap of her bag. She looked out the window, her reflection showing wide eyes and flushed cheeks. Silas didn't move away. In fact, he seemed to reclaim the space, his arm resting on the back of the seat behind her head. He wasn't touching her, but his presence was a physical weight, a heat that radiated through the inches between them.

Every time Leo took a turn, the sway of the car threatened to push her closer to Silas. She was acutely aware of his hand—the one with the dark tattoos—resting just inches from her thigh. She could see the veins on the back of his hand, the way his knuckles were dusted with fine hair. He was so intensely *there*. The silence in the backseat was thick, a living thing that hummed with everything they weren't saying. Silas wasn't looking at her, but she could feel his focus. It was a predator’s focus, quiet and absolute.

***

When the car finally rolled to a stop in front of the University’s Psychology department, Hazel felt like she had just finished a marathon. The tension was so high she half-expected the windows to shatter. Leo put the car in park and turned around with a bright smile.

"Have a good day, Pip. Study hard," he said, reaching over the seat to plant a loud, affectionate kiss on her cheek. "I’ll pick you up at four, okay?"

"Okay, Leo. See you then," Hazel whispered, her voice sounding thin to her own ears.

As she stepped out of the car, she realized Silas had followed her out. He stood by the rear door, leaning against the frame as he surveyed the campus. The reaction was instantaneous. A group of sophomore girls walking toward the library stopped in their tracks, their hushed whispers and giggles carrying on the breeze. They were staring openly at Silas—at his height, his brooding face, and the dark, dangerous allure of the tattoos snaking down his arms.

Silas didn't give them a second glance. His eyes were pinned on a group of fraternity boys standing by the fountain, who were currently staring at Hazel with predatory interest. One of them nudged another, pointing at Hazel’s knit top and the way it fit her. Silas’s expression darkened instantly. His jaw set, and he took a single step toward Hazel, his shadow falling over her. He didn't touch her, but he didn't have to. He threw a look at the boys—a cold, lethal glare that promised a very specific kind of violence if they didn't look away. The boys suddenly found their shoelaces very interesting, turning tail and hurrying toward the dining hall.

Silas looked back at Hazel, his eyes searching hers for a moment. "Go to class, Hazel," he said, his voice a low command. It wasn't a suggestion; it was a directive to get into the safety of the building before he lost his temper with the rest of the world.

***

Forty minutes later, Hazel was sitting in the third row of the lecture hall, her notebook open to a fresh page. Professor Miller was at the front of the room, droning on about the "Architecture of the Human Psyche" and the "Limbic System’s Role in Emotional Response."

Hazel tried to take notes. She really did. She wrote the word *'Amygdala'* and then stopped. Her pen hovered over the paper as her mind drifted back to the car. She could still feel the phantom heat of Silas’s knee against hers. She could still smell the cedar. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw the way his black t-shirt had clung to his chest.

"The limbic system is responsible for our most primal instincts," Professor Miller said, his voice echoing in the large hall. "Fight, flight, and... desire."

Hazel’s heart gave a traitorous thud. She looked down and realized she had been doodling. It wasn't a diagram of the brain. It was a series of dark, interlocking scales—a mimicry of the tattoo she had seen on Silas’s forearm. She felt a hot flush creep up her neck. She was a psychology major; she was supposed to be the one analyzing behavior, not the one falling victim to a textbook case of obsessive fixation.

She was in trouble. Deep, tangled trouble. And as the lecture continued around her, all she could think about was the four o'clock pick-up, and the long, silent ride back home in the dark with Silas sitting just inches away.