The air is thick with the scent of roasted meats and fresh herbs, mingling with the faint, sweet perfume of the flowers arranged at the center of the table—white roses and pale pink peonies.
I sit at the dining table, my posture rigid, my jaw tight. Beside me, Silas sips his water with an infuriating calmness—his movements slow, deliberate, unhurried, as though he has all the time in the world.
Beneath the table, his hand finds mine again and again, like we're children playing under the table. I push it away. He takes it again. Finally, his fingers intertwine with mine, squeezing softly—a quiet claim.
My brows twist in anger. I try to pull my hand free.
Mom's voice cuts through the quiet hum of the room, warm and bright, making both of us freeze.
"Ellis, son..."
I blink and look up at her.
"Why aren't you eating? I made this dinner myself."
