Page 42 of Salem’s Rise

Three people enter. Peering between the carved wooden table legs, I watch a petite, middle-aged blonde in head-to-toe Barbie-pink tweed throw her arms around Silas. “I missed you so much, darling,” she says. “You were impossible to get ahold of while we were away.”

“Mother. We talked every day,” Silas says with a laugh.

The bastard actually laughs.

The sound is so unfamiliar, I nearly lift my head and give myself away.

His mother holds his face between her hands, kissing one cheek while he submits with an indulgent smile. The woman is incredibly beautiful in a delicate, polished way, her pale hair cut neatly at her shoulders, pearls glowing at her neck and ears. She reminds me of an older version of Elle Woods from Legally Blonde.

Behind her stands a strikingly handsome older man who looks like Silas softened by decades of happiness. He’s just as tall, with the same dark hair and dark eyes, impeccably dressed in a black designer suit. The resemblance is unmistakable, though the warmth in the older man’s expression stands in stark contrast to Silas’s usual glacial coldness. This must be Silas’s billionaire father, Damien Blackhollow.

He doesn’t look like a killer.

Then again, who knows what a killer is supposed to look like?

“Your mother has spent all morning insisting you’ve become too pale,” his father says.

“Come to the Sardinia house with us,” his mother says, ruffling Silas’s hair. “You could use a little sunshine.”

She takes Silas’s hand and keeps it as she begins asking about classes, meals, whether he’s sleeping enough. He answers every question patiently. No coldness. No cruelty. He smiles at her as though her concern is something precious. It’s clear Silas adores his parents, and they adore him right back.

I feel like I’m in an alternate universe watching them.

Where is the monster I know?

I cannot reconcile this loving son with the man who kidnapped me with masks and knives and always speaks to me in clipped warnings and insults.

“Darling, please change your mind and come along,” his mother says softly. “We don’t leave until Thursday.”

Silas withdraws his hand gently from his mother’s grasp and kisses her temple. “Mother—we’ve been over this. I can’t.”

The devastation in her face is immediate, though she hides it quickly.

“Forget Salem’s Fall University,” his father says. “Cambridge is wonderful. Or Oxford. One call and it’s done.”

“It isn’t good for you to be here, Silas,” his mother says. “Not this close to… Halloween. You know what happens this year.”

“I can handle it, Mother,” he says.

“You’re spending too much time with your uncle. I don’t like it.” His father’s expression hardens. “He’s going to put you in danger.”

“Damien.” His mother touches his father’s arm. “Lucien would never hurt Silas. He isn’t the same man he was when you were children. He’s changed.”

His mother grabs what looks like an old photo album from the bookshelves. “Here it is. I’ve been looking everywhere for this,” she says, and then the three of them move toward the door. Their footsteps quickly fade, and silence settles over the library once more.

My mind is still struggling to make sense of what I just witnessed as I crawl backward from beneath the table. It wasn’t just the different side of Silas—that was disconcerting enough—but what were his parents talking about? They sounded almost… afraid for him.

I’m about to rise to my feet when a voice cuts through the room.

“You can come out now, little mouse,” Silas says, and my entire body freezes in place. “I know you’re there hiding under the table.”

For several seconds, I remain perfectly still beneath the reading table, as if refusing to move might somehow restore the version of reality where Silas has not just caught me trespassing in his uncle’s private library. The room is silent except for the slow ticking of a grandfather clock somewhere beyond the paneled walls. Above me, Silas waits with a calm patience that feels more threatening than if he’d started shouting.

Reluctantly, I finally crawl out and find him standing on the opposite side of the table. His arms are folded across his chest, his expression quietly furious. It should make him less attractive. Instead, the cold restraint only sharpens everything about him—the silky sweep of his hair, the severe line of his mouth, the dark intensity of his eyes.

Apparently, even my imminent ruin can’t stop me from noticing how ridiculously hot he is.

“This isn’t what it looks like,” I say, straightening slowly, brushing dust from my jeans.