Page 71 of Salem’s Rise
“Clearly.” His gaze moves past me, taking in the old books scattered across my bed and the cup of chamomile tea I forgot to drink. “Looks like an exhilarating Friday night.”
I exhale through my nose.
“What do you want, Blackhollow?”
An attractive woman from two doors down emerges from her room, glancing at Silas with blatant interest. He notices her watching him without even having to turn fully around, which is a skill I suspect he learned at puberty.
“If you would prefer to discuss The Rites in the corridor,” he says quietly, “I’m sure your neighbors would appreciate the entertainment.”
I step aside.
He enters my bedroom without triumph, which somehow irritates me more. I close the door behind him and turn the lock, then immediately unlock it, not sure which is safer.
“How’s that going?” he asks, his gaze drifting back to the open books on my bed. “Learning anything from your little stolen library?”
“You let me have them.”
“After you’d already broken into my family’s house.”
“Still—that makes you an accomplice, doesn’t it? You could’ve turned me in, but you didn’t.”
“An error in judgment.” Something flickers at the corner of his mouth, not quite a smile but close enough.
He crosses a few feet into the room and shrugs out of his coat but doesn’t sit. The movement pulls his shirt tight across his shoulders for half a second. His sleeves are pushed back over his muscular forearms—forearms that have no business looking that good on a man who spends most of his time being cruel. I look away before he catches me staring, but am not entirely sure I succeed.
“So… to what do I owe the honor of your visit?” I ask.
“I’m here to make you an offer.”
Coming from anyone else, I might be curious. Coming from the man who’s spent weeks acting like he can’t stand me, it sounds more like the beginning of a trap—even if he did save my life during the last trial.
“That sounds ominous,” I say. “I don’t think I’m interested.”
His gaze settles on me, cool and direct.
“You won’t survive The Rites alone.”
“You came all the way to my room just to insult me?”
“It’s not an insult. It’s simply a fact,” he says. “You’ll be dead before the games are over.”
I wince at the familiar edge of his voice, sharp enough to cut and maim. The Silas who saved my life in the tunnels and helped me in Lucien’s house I don’t understand. The one who kissed me at the Blackhollow Ball I understand even less. But this version of Silas is almost reassuring. Arrogant. Cruel. Predictable in his refusal to be kind.
“Thanks for the illuminating observation. You can leave now.”
“You didn’t let me finish.”
I should shove him out the door. Instead, I hesitate.
“Let me help you,” he says, and everything inside me stills.
I study his face for some sign of mockery but find none. “You’re screwing with me.”
“I can assure you I’m not.” He pauses, his gaze holding mine a beat too long. “If I were screwing with you, you’d know it.”
Wait.
Did he just—
