Page 87 of Vows of Silence

So what had happened here? What had gone so wrong that he hadn’t inherited this radiance, and instead had been dragged into the dark, seedy world of his grandfather?

Before I could stop myself, I found myself gently touching the faces of his parents, running my fingers over the sharp cheekbones of his father, the full lips of his mother—did Silas look like her? Or did he favour Antonio more?

I’d heard what happened to Silas as a child. The acid attack that had his scarred face. The murder of his parents. That was why he wore the mask. Even though rumours said differently.

But since being here, I’d learned to stop trusting rumours. Because Silas was not the man I had heard about. He was not the man I had been so terrified of whilst hiding under the sofa.

I stroked the picture again, my mind caught up in the mystery, when suddenly the lights clicked off, plunging me into darkness.

I gasped, blinking through the dark, willing my eyes to adjust quickly so I could see something—anything.

“Hello?” I called out softly, not daring to project my voice any louder. “Silas?”

One of the lights clicked back on, and I gasped again.

There he was, illuminated under the bright bulb, the shadows from the rest of the hallway bleeding around the edges of him.

The light clicked off again.

“Silas? This isn’t funny!”

It clicked back on and he was closer, his silver mask glaring directly at me.

“What are you doing? You’re scaring me.”

The darkness came again, and my body began to shake with nerves.

“I promise I wasn’t running,” I whispered into the dark, frantically scanning to see where he was.

This time, when the light clicked back on, he was right in front of me, the silver mask hovering above my head, looking down at me in that cocked way he always did.

I hated how much taller he was. Hated how easily he swallowed the space around him. Hated how every part of me became painfully aware of every part of him whenever he stood this close.

“I wasn’t running,” I repeated, though weaker this time.

He raised one gloved hand, and for one moment—one stupid, pathetic moment—I thought he was going to touch me. To cupmy cheek and show me affection. I was so starved for it I almost leant into his non-existent touch.

And then he held his hand in the air, his fingers extended.

Five.

The lights went back out, and when they came back up, he had curled his thumb into his palm.

Four.

“Four what? What does that mean?” I hissed at him.

The lights went off, and I knew what I would see when they came back on again.

Three.

He was counting down.

But to what?

My pulse hammered painfully against my ribs as I stared at the two curled fingers against his palm, my brain desperately trying to catch up with whatever game Silas was playing now.

He could catch me whenever he wanted.