Page 22 of Silent as Sin
When I came back to her room, I half-expected to find her curled in bed, lost under blankets again. But the second I stepped inside, the sight stopped me cold.
She was standing.
Not confident, not bold — her hands clutched the edge of the dresser like it was holding her up — but she’d tried. Her hair hung brushed and smooth down her shoulders, the pale blue dress one of the women had left for her skimming down her frame. Simple. Clean. But it made her look softer, younger somehow.
She’d fought to put herself together, and the effort carved a lump in my throat.
Her eyes lifted, just for a heartbeat, then darted away. But in that sliver of time I caught it, the flicker of uncertainty, the trace of pride in what she’d managed, the shadow of shame she couldn’t hide.
“Ready?” I asked, keeping my voice even, like it was nothing more than breakfast we were heading to.
She gave the smallest nod.
I stepped aside, letting her walk first, but close enough that if she faltered, I’d be there. My hand hovered near her back, not touching, just a barrier against the hallway that stretched wide and empty ahead of us.
When we reached the kitchen, the noise hit — loud voices, laughter, the scrape of chairs on the wood floor. A normal morning in the clubhouse. But I felt her flinch beside me, felt her pace falter like she’d hit a wall.
Without thinking, I shifted closer, my arm brushing hers. Just enough contact to remind her she wasn’t walking in alone.
Heads turned as we entered, but I caught every stare that lingered too long and met it with one of my own. hard enough that most looked away quick.
I steered her to the far end of the table, the seat by the wall. Pulled the chair out for her, waited until she sat.
Noise filled the kitchen again, but I kept one ear tuned to her, every shift of her breath, every twitch of her fingers.
I grabbed two mugs, poured the coffee, and set one in front of her, and dropped into the seat next to her. “Drink,” I said, not a command, not gentle either, just a little push.
Her hand trembled when she reached for it, but she wrapped her fingers around the handle and lifted it anyway. Brave. Stronger than she knew.
I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding.
She was here. Sitting in this kitchen, in the middle of my brothers, after a night that should’ve left her hiding in shadows.
And I swore to myself then, as I always did, whatever it took, I’d keep her standing.
Noise rolled thick through the kitchen, but I kept my focus on her. She sat stiff in the chair beside me, the mug braced in both hands, her eyes fixed on the steam rising from the coffee. Her knuckles were white from the grip.
A soft hand touched her shoulder, and I tensed before I saw who it was.
“Elara,” I muttered, my tone easing a notch.
She gave me a quick look, steady, reassuring, before crouching beside Wren. “Morning, Wren ,” she said gently. No pity in her voice, just warmth, the kind that didn’t scrape. “You doing all right?”
Wren’s eyes flicked to her, just for a heartbeat, then dropped back to the coffee. She didn’t nod, didn’t shake her head. Just held tighter to the mug.
Elara didn’t push. She just smoothed a strand of Wren’s hair behind her ear, the gesture small but grounding. “You look lovely in that dress. Suits you.”
Color touched Wren’s cheeks, quick and fleeting.
I caught the way Elara’s gaze softened, how she read that flicker and let it stand. She rose and patted my shoulder as she passed. “Make sure she eats, Ashen,” she whispered.
“Always,” I murmured.
Across the table, a chair scraped loud against the floor. Throttle dropped into it, plate already piled high. He flashed a grin—bright, easy, the kind that always seemed to take the edge off a room.
“Well, don’t you look nice this morning,” he said, not rough or teasing, just warm. His fork pointed toward one of his biscuits. “You gotta try one of these. Jewel’ll have my head if you don’t. Best thing she makes.”
He slid the basket closer, the gesture casual but kind.
