Page 116 of The Blood we Crave

“Lyra,” Silas says, his voice making me look up from the board, “why are you doing this to yourself?”

He doesn’t need to say anything else. I know what he is asking. Why am I at the mercy of a man who, time and time again, has proven just how incapable he is of feeling?

It’s the question on everyone’s mind. What they whisper among one another. The one they think about but never ask me, and if they do, I usually never give a response. Except I’m exhausted with people who measure what I feel for Thatcher on their scale of love’s expectations.

“Loving him isn’t about getting anything in return,” I say with a hardened stare. “My love for Thatcher is not selfish. It does not require reciprocation or celebration. It’s honest. It can exist on its own without notice.”

I am a ghost who haunts a man that doesn’t need him to make me human. It is enough for him to see me, for me to inhabit the empty attics of his mind and barren hallways of his heart.

Loving him without favor is enough.

It is my obsession that needs attention, that needs feeding.

“I thought you, of all people, would understand what that is like,” I finish because if we are going to air my dirty laundry on the table, might as well throw his in the mix.

My admission doesn’t surprise him, or maybe it does. He doesn’t show it either way, only stares at me with empty eyes.

We sit here.

Two people woven in webs of pain at the hands of the world’s most lethal spider.

Love.

I may not have been there when he was with Rosemary, didn’t know him well, or see him in the aftermath of her death like Rook did, but there’s a deep sense of understanding that flows between the two of us. A river connected to the same pool of turmoil. Maybe there always had been from the first day I showed up here to visit.

Something in me knew he would understand, without explanation. If the rest of the world didn’t, he would. Silas makes other people uncomfortable because he refuses to hide the pain in his eyes, the sorrow that lives in them.

I think he knew I wasn’t afraid of it—it’s why he gave me the opportunity of friendship. Silas leans forward, picking up his bishop and taking one of my pieces, adding it to the growing pile of black on the side of the board.

“What a pair we make,” he mutters. “We love people that will never love us back.”

I let out a breathy laugh, shaking my head. “Rosemary loved you. You know that.”

“Not anymore,” he says, his jaw tightening at the admission.

My eyebrows furrow, and on instinct, my hand moves forward, resting on top of his across the board.

“That love still exists, Silas.” My words carry a sense of urgency. “It doesn’t just disappear. It has to go somewhere. It is still real.”

He stares hard at my hand, allowing a beat of silence to pass between us before looking up again.

“I can’t find it anymore.”

There is no response for me. Nothing I tell him will aid the pain he carries. So I tighten my grip, giving his hand a gentle squeeze. Hoping it can say the things I can’t.

We linger there for a moment longer before I pull back, staring down at the chess game with zero clue of how to progress forward without losing immediately.

“Lyra.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know.” I wave him off. “I’m trying to think about whether I should attack or defend—”

“Rook has my phone.”

I raise my eyes to his gaze, lifting an eyebrow. “When you get it back, you know there will be a slew of dick pics. You know that, right?”

He scoffs, kinda like a laugh.

When he opens his mouth again, he says something I’m not expecting. A helpful hand, just like I’d given him. It makes me wish I could do more for him.

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