Page 6 of Whispers of Helena
Eli moves closer, surveying the spread. He takes a carrot from the vegetable tray, crunching it as he gives me a warm smile. “Looks good,” he says approvingly.
“I didn’t have much time, but no one’s ever complained about hamburgers and potatoes,” I say, setting a stack of plates at the end of the island.
“Simple is good around here,” he replies, eyes crinkling. “I’ll get washed up.”
Eli disappears down the hallway just as the low, steady thud of boots echoes up the back steps. My pulse quickens; I double-checkeverything one last time, forcing myself to look busy at the sink as I hear them enter.
From the corner of my eye, I watch the men file in, hanging their hats without a second glance before they gravitate toward the food. One of them breaks off from the group. He appears to be around my age with light brown hair, curious eyes, and a friendly grin that catches my attention.
“Everything looks real good, ma’am,” he says kindly, stepping closer.
I meet his gaze, matching his smile. “Thank you. If anything’s missing, let me know.”
He chuckles, extending a hand. “Will do. I’m Marcel.”
My fingers brush his in a quick handshake. “Helena.”
His eyes linger, an intensity in them I feel down to my bones. My cheeks warm under his stare until a low, gravelly voice cuts through the air.
“That’s enough, Marcel. Go eat.”
My eyes shift to Silas, standing across the island with his arms crossed, focused on Marcel. His voice is deep and thick. The sound is like a dark cloak wrapping around you. His presence is commanding, his jaw tight. Marcel shifts away, making his plate quietly before joining the others at the table, leaving Silas and me in tense solitude.
Silas’s gaze pins me in place. “Don’t entertain them,” he mutters.
“He was only being polite.” I lift my chin, meeting his deep blue eyes—a stark contrast against the jet-black hair that frames his face. I couldn’t help but notice his strong jaw and day-old stubble when I met him earlier. Compared to the other men, he is notably tall and muscular. His harsh demeanor is at odds with his handsome features.
“Polite doesn’t warrant conversation,” he replies flatly.
The urge to snap back flares, but before I can respond, I hear small footsteps approach.
“Ms. Helena?”
I tear my gaze away from Silas, granting myself one last defiantlook, before turning to see a young boy looking up at me. Kiran. He has his father’s dark hair but none of Silas’s storminess; his eyes are a light brown, his smile gentle. My eyes land on the faded scar that traces along his neck, disappearing beneath his shirt collar. I feel the pain in my own scar that spans my back as I bend to meet him, extending my hand.
“You must be Kiran.”
He shakes my hand with a shy smile. “Yes, that’s me.”
“It’s nice to meet you. Are you hungry?” He nods eagerly. “Go sit down, and I’ll bring you a plate.”
“Thank you, ma’am,” he replies, heading toward the table.
“Wash your hands, son,” Silas directs, his tone softening.
“Yes, sir.” Kiran heads to the sink, water splashing as he washes up.
Silas reaches for a plate beside me, filling it in silence as I prepare Kiran’s. When he’s done, he takes the plate from my hands, carrying it to Kiran before sitting at the head of the table, a wordless command in his every move. The men fall into a steady rhythm, the quiet broken only by Eli and Marcel’s easy conversation with Kiran.
From where I stand, I watch Silas—his gaze often drifts to the boy, the corner of his mouth upturning occasionally. In the light of the kitchen, his silhouette cuts a shadow as dark and rough as the mountains surrounding this place. And though he hardly looks my way, a tension hums in the space between us, an unspoken warning woven into the silence.
I start a pot of coffee as the men finish their meal. Collecting the used plates, I slip into the quiet rhythm of washing dishes, then tuck the leftover food into the refrigerator. One by one, the men fill their thermoses with coffee and head outside without so much as a nod, except for Marcel, who flashes a quick, simple smile before he steps out.
Kiran pads over to the sink with his empty plate, his eyes bright as he hands it to me. “Lunch was good, Ms. Helena.”
A smile tugs at my lips. “I’m glad you enjoyed it, Kiran.”
Silas approaches next, his presence filling the kitchen. He hands me his plate. “Come sit with us at the table.”
