Page 43 of Blurred Lines

Moonlight plays shadow puppets on the gleaming countertops, making me look twice as ridiculous as I must with my stomach rumbling loud enough to out-sing the crickets.

"What are you thinking?" Silas's question reaches me from the doorway. He's watching me carefully.

"Just contemplating the absurdity of being forced to think when I'm starving."

Way to go, Emily, paint yourself the helpless damsel. My inner critic sighs in despair.

He chuckles, a low rumble that does funny things to my pulse. In a second, the haunted look in his eyes is gone.

"Let's go to the kitchen," he says.

We trail down the stairs wordlessly until we enter the mansion's expansive kitchen. I look around me in despair. "Can we just order takeout?"

Silas snorts derisively. "Madam, this isn't New York. You're not getting takeout here at"—a quick look at his watch later, and he releases a sharp bark of laughter—"three a.m."

"Then what do we do?" I groan.

"Caeleb is the chef," he admits. "But I can make you a mean sandwich."

"I'll take what I can get."

"Then allow me to impress you." Silas waltzes towards the fridge, throwing it open.

I can't help but grin as he pulls out ingredients like a magician with strangely delicious tricks. Maybe it's the hunger, but Silas cutting tomatoes with the focus of a surgeon is weirdly mesmerizing. The knife flashes, and I find myself watching his hands instead of the veggies.

"Don't burn a hole in me, Princess," he teases, his grin widening. My cheeks flush in what I'm sure is a ridiculous scarlet.

"Shut up," I mutter, the retort lacking any real heat. "Let a girl admire a well-made sandwich."

The sizzle of bacon fills the room, followed by the pop of fresh slices of bread, toasted to perfection, their surfaces steaming gently.

Silas builds the sandwich while I try, and fail, to look nonchalant. He has the kind of focused frown that makes him look ridiculously handsome, which is incredibly inconvenient right now.

"Here you go, Your Highness," he announces, sliding the BLT across the counter. It smells like heaven and looks like a masterpiece fit for a king. Or a very hungry princess.

I grab it with the enthusiasm of a wild animal. The first bite is pure bliss, the bacon crunchy, the tomato a burst of summer. "Oh wow," I moan, only half-joking. "Seriously, make this again and I'm never letting you go."

Silas's eyebrows shoot up. "Careful, someone might take you up on that."

A blush creeps up my neck again. Great going, Em. Make him run faster, although he doesn't seem eager to run, but whatever.

I shove more BLT in my mouth with gusto, pretending this isn't the most awkward yet delicious sandwich I've ever had.

Silas pours us both grape juice. I had no idea how parched I was. I drink thirstily, sighing only when the glass is empty.

The food settles my complaining stomach, and a comfortable warmth spreads through me. Silas clears his throat, his usual teasing grin replaced by an unreadable expression.

"So," he starts, a shadow crossing his eyes, "you wanted to talk."

I know I have to take the first step here. The easy banter dries up. Dad, the house, the twisted mess of it all … it's not exactly laugh-a-minute conversation material. But Silas, surprisingly, doesn't push. Just waits.

"My dad …" I begin, unsure where to even start. "He was obsessed with, well, all of this." I gesture vaguely around the kitchen, and he nods. "Always hankering for adventure, always gone. Makes it hard not to resent the giant house and … everything."

"Yeah," Silas says, something tight in his voice. "I hear you. Fancy digs ain't the same as family."

I study him, the way his jaw clenches, the brief flicker of something dark in his eyes.

What is it? What's behind this facade, this angsty, hot mess of a man?

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