Page 89 of Runaways

But Silas stares at the man with clenched fists and his jaw set. "Did he touch you, Noah?" he asks again.

"I'm fine," I tell him. "I just want to leave."

"I did," the man says, and then pours his drink out on Silas's shoes. "What are you gonna do about it?"

I barely see Silas move before Tate's arms circle my waist, pulling me backward as Silas's fist connects with the older man's face. Blood sprays from his mouth as he falls backward onto the concrete, but Silas doesn't stop. It's like I'm stuck in a time warp, watching it all happen in an instant and somehow, at the same time, in impossibly slow motion. He kneels over him, hitting him over and over again—until his face looks like raw meat, and Tate finally pulls him back.

"Stop!" Tate yells. "That's enough. We have to go. We've got to get out of here."

Eventually, Silas nods and lets him pull him to his feet.

"Come on," Tate says, ushering us both toward the vehicle. "I'll drive."

"Should we call someone? Should we do something?"

"No!" Tate snaps. "We're not calling anyone; we're never talking about this again. Do you understand, Noah?"

"Is—is he dead?" I ask.

"No," Tate says, less than reassuringly. "He was still breathing. I saw him."

He helps Silas, who's still silent, his knuckles stained in blood, into the back and points me toward the passenger seat when I try to slide in next to him.

"You need to leave him alone right now, Noah," Tate says.

In the rearview, I see him sitting in the back, impossibly still, with his hands folded together between his legs.

"I'm sorry," I tell Tate when he gets into the car.

"Why are you sorry? You didn't do anything."

"It was my fault, though."

"No, it wasn't. It's not your fault, baby, and I don't want to hear you say that. It was his fault; he was looking for a fight. He's probably spitting out teeth and thanking us for a good time right now."

I laugh a little, wiping tears from under my eyes. "Yeah, right."

"Hey, we all have our…things," Tate says.

"Silas, are you—"

"Don't talk to him right now, Noah. Give him a minute to calm down."

"But it's been a minute," I argue.

Tate doesn't reply, his gaze fixed on the road ahead with one hand on my thigh and the other on the steering wheel. I sigh and lean back in my seat, closing my eyes when watching the lights from outside as we speed down the highway become dizzying.

A few minutes later, I feel Silas's hand on my arm, his mouth on my shoulder.

"I'm sorry," Silas says. "I didn't mean to scare you—I'm fine. I'll never hurt you, Noah. You know that, right?"

I turn back and nod. "I know. I'm not scared."

"Come here," he says.

I climb into the backseat and into his lap, wrapping my arms and legs around him. And then, he's kissing my neck and grinding against me. His lips find mine, his tongue pushing its way into my mouth, burying a moan as I roll my hips over his hardness.

He pulls his joggers down over his hips, his dick springing free, and pulls my underwear to the side before positioning himself at my opening. "Sit on it, Noah," he says. "Sit all the way down."

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