Page 82 of At the Mercy of Midnight
Not the scars beneath the surface, the trauma.
Before he could stop himself, he stepped forwards, hand reaching out to steady her, to pull her back from the brink. He didn't know what to say, or even if there were words that could help. All he knew was that she needed him now.
“Winslow,” he murmured, stepping beside her, hand on her arm. The rest of the room seemed oblivious, caught up in their own musings or the next point in her presentation, but he could feel the weight of the moment.
She didn't respond. She couldn’t. He could see her straining to keep it together, her mind battling against memories which clawed at her from the past. Her gaze flickered, distant and lost, breath coming in sharp, shallow gasps.
“Hey.” Silas stepped even closer, voice lower, softer. His hand smoothed up her arm. “You’re okay. You’re safe.”
He watched uneasily as she struggled to pull herself together, hands trembling, gripping the lectern as if it might anchor her. She closed her eyes briefly, and when they reopened, they were filled with something like terror, a storm swirling beneath the surface.
Something shifted in him. Something protective, instinctive. His hand found hers, gripping it firmly, grounding her. She didn’t pull away, didn’t flinch, but he could feel her tremble under his touch. He held her hand tighter, so she would feel the connection, the assurance she wasn't alone.
“Focus on me,” he whispered. “Breathe slowly. In and out.”
It wasn’t much, but it was all he had. He wasn’t a healer, wasn’t a therapist. But he knew Amelia. He knew her strength and determination. He just needed her to remember that she wasn’t facing this alone.
Slowly, she calmed, breaths evening out, but the internal battle lingered in her eyes. She was trying hard to hold it together, to regain the control she always demanded of herself.
Silas saw her for what she was now. Vulnerable, real.
Something had happened to her that no one else would understand, and her parents were responsible.
She was afraid of them. Devastatingly so.
“We’re getting out of here,” Silas said firmly, voice steady even as his insides churned with concern. “You don’t have to do this anymore.”
Amelia blinked, gaze settling on him like she was trying to find something in his eyes. It wasn’t the usual confidence there or the usual fire. But he saw a flicker of trust.
With a quiet, shaky breath, Amelia nodded. “Okay.”
As they turned to leave, her parents’ cold, calculated gaze followed them, and Silas knew this wasn’t the end of whatever had just begun.
TWENTY
The knock at Amelia’s door was sharp and unrelenting, rattling Silas from his dazed state of note-sorting. He exchanged a glance with Amelia, who rose from the floor where she’d been cross-referencing their research, posture tense, as though expecting something nefarious behind her closed door.
Silas followed, reaching her just before she grasped the handle.
Amelia opened the door, finding a courier there, a plain wooden crate tucked under one arm.
He heard her sigh of relief at the innocuous visitor.
“Delivery for Mister Silas Finley?”
Amelia gestured to him. He gave the man a polite smile, stepping forwards to accept the crate, glancing down to see the tidy lettering of his sisters across the top.
They thanked the man, moving back inside.
Amelia hovered by his shoulder while he set the crate on her desk, prising the lid free. Inside, carefully wrapped in layers of worn cloth, were two journals. Silas breathed in steadily as he picked up the top one, a battered leather journal, its edges frayed with age. He recognised it from a collection of his father’s journals.
Amelia let out a soft whistle. “Look at that.”
Silas looked back into the crate at what she referenced. Beneath his father’s journal was the second book Aurora had mentioned. It was made of dark brown leather, blackened at the corners, its cover carved with twisting, faintly glowing glyphs. A small symbol was etched into the centre, a bowl-like semi-circle cradling a small star.
Silas reached for it, though the moment his fingers brushed the journal, an icy pulse shot through his bones. Amelia hissed softly.
He withdrew his hand quickly. “You felt that?”
