Page 16 of Where Your Scars Meet Mine
“Because you never go,” Cheyenne shoots back immediately, rolling her eyes.
She leans forward, clearly enjoying this moment. “Also, fun fact… Kadin asked about you this morning when I ran into him.”
My head snaps back toward her.
“Kadin?” I repeat, confused. “Asked about me? Why?”
“You two have a class together, right?” Cheyenne says with a grin.
“Yes, but that’s it,” I insist.
Maria just shrugs. “From where I sit in that lecture hall, he spends more time looking at you than the professor.”
Heat rushes into my cheeks so fast it’s embarrassing.
“That’s ridiculous,” I mumble, shaking my head quickly. “You’re both being dramatic.”
Before either of them can argue further, the sound of the front door downstairs slams through the house. It hits the wall hard enough that the echo travels all the way up the stairs.
My smile disappears instantly.
All three of us turn toward my bedroom door.
My parents’ voices drift up from the foyer, low and indistinct. Beneath them, I hear something else.
Another set of footsteps.
Heavier.
Slower.
My stomach drops.
Silas.
A thought settles in my chest like a stone as the murmured conversation downstairs continues.
I stare at the doorway, suddenly aware that the quiet balance of this house is about to forever shift.
CHAPTER 3
Octavia
Cheyenne and Maria nearly shove past me when they hear the front door open, both of them trying to crowd the hallway like this is some kind of spectacle. It takes more effort than it should to push them back toward my room. Cheyenne argues that she has a right to assess the “incoming threat,” as Maria insists she’s staying for moral support, but neither of them can hide the curiosity lighting up their faces.
“Stay upstairs,” I tell them, keeping my voice low but firm.
They protest anyway. Of course they do.
Cheyenne groans dramatically about missing history in the making. Maria gives me a look that says she doesn’t trust this at all. The sound of my name drifting up from downstairs cuts through the hallway again, sharper this time.
On the fourth call, there’s no more pretending not to hear it.
The banister feels smooth and solid beneath my palm as I make my way down the staircase. Each step feels louder than usual, the house strangely aware of what’s happening within it. My parents’ voices blend together at the bottom of the stairs, low and measured, as if they’re trying to keep everything steady.
Near the door, a single duffel bag rests against the wall.
That’s all he brought?
