Page 24 of Push My Buttons
But that's okay. I can drink bad coffee. I can sit here all afternoon if necessary.
Because Wren might be Silence, but right now, she needs someone to speak for her. To stand between her and whatever demons are chasing her.
And somehow, improbably, that someone is me.
Chapter 8
Wren
Theeveningairfeelstoo heavy against my skin as I step out of Grounded. My shift ended twenty minutes ago, but Jace insisted on staying until I was ready to leave. He's been hovering since my panic attack, watching me with those intense eyes that seem to see straight through me.
"I can walk you home," he offers again, his voice low and careful. "It's getting dark."
I shake my head firmly and sign,"I'm fine. Need to clear my head anyway."
He hesitates, clearly reluctant to leave me alone. There's something protective in his stance that I'm not used to seeing directed at me. It's... disconcerting. And oddly comforting.
"Are you sure?" he asks.
I nod, forcing a smile I don't feel. His concern is touching, but right now I need space more than I need protection. Space to process. To breathe. To figure out what the hell I'm supposed to do now that my brother's face is plastered across every news outlet again.
After a moment, Jace relents. "Text when you get home safe?"
The request surprises me. We exchanged numbers earlier—his idea, in case I needed anything—but I didn't expect him to actually use it. I nod again, and he finally turns to leave, throwing one last concerned glance over his shoulder before disappearing around the corner.
I exhale slowly, my shoulders dropping from their tense position near my ears. The fresh air helps clear the fog from my mind, but the knot in my stomach remains tight and insistent.
My brother has been caught. Lucien—the monster who stole my voice, who tore my family apart, who turned our name into a curse—is finally in custody.
One would think I'd feel relief. Closure. Some fragment of peace knowing he can't hurt anyone else.
Instead, all I feel is dread.
Because if he's been arrested hundreds of miles from here, then he can't be the one who's been stalking me. Can't be the one who left that pendant. Can't be the one who took photos through my window.
Which means there's someone else. Someone who knows who I am. Someone who found me despite everything I did to disappear.
I walk faster, my eyes scanning every shadow, every passing face. The city feels different tonight—the spaces between streetlights darker, the gaps between buildings deeper. Every footstep behind me makes my heart stutter, every casual glance from a stranger feels loaded with hidden meaning.
I reach a crosswalk and stop, waiting for the light to change. Cars rush past in the gathering dusk, headlights painting streaks of gold against the darkening sky. People cluster around me—office workers heading home, couples meeting for dinner, normal people living normal lives.
My gaze drifts across the crowd, the automatic scan I always do. Old habits. Survival instincts.
That's when I see it—a flash of movement that makes my head snap back. Someone in the crowd across the street has just run their fingers through their hair in a distinctive gesture. A deliberate sweep from temple to crown, then a slight twist of the wrist. It's so familiar it makes my chest ache, though I can't place why.
I strain to see clearer, searching the faces across the intersection. A businessman on his phone. A woman with shopping bags. A group of college students laughing. None of them seem to be looking my way. None of them trigger recognition.
The light changes. People move forward. I stand frozen, still searching, that gesture replaying in my mind like a skipping record. Where have I seen it before? Why does it pull at something deep in my memory?
"Are you crossing or what?" someone mutters behind me, annoyed.
I step forward automatically, still scanning the crowd as I cross. But whoever made that gesture has blended back into the sea of faces. By the time I reach the other side, the moment has passed, leaving only a vague unease in its wake.
Coincidence. It has to be. Just my overwrought brain making connections that aren't there.
I shake it off and continue walking, picking up my pace as the streetlights flicker on. The sooner I get home, the sooner I can lock the door, pull the curtains, and pretend the outside world doesn't exist.
Taking the stairs two at a time, I fish my keys from my pocket as I go. The familiar weight of them in my palm is reassuring—solid, real, something I can control. I reach my door and slide the key into the lock, the mechanisms clicking open with a sound that usually means security.
