Chapter 33: How We Began (Nico POV)
The motel’s dark, power still out from that cut, and the echo of footsteps outside has my heart pounding hard. Silas is next to me, close, his hand brushing mine as we wait, tense and quiet after Ronan bolted. My head’s a mess—spyware, Lena’s betrayal, someone close screwing me again—and I’m staring at him, his face sharp in the laptop’s faint glow, steady like always. My chest tightens, sudden, and I’m pulled back, years ago, to the night we met, before all this chaos swallowed us whole.
It’s a gig downtown, some cramped club, air thick with sweat, smoke, and cheap beer. I’m 20, reckless, fresh off a street battle win, still buzzing with adrenaline, my crew laughing behind me. The place is alive—lights flashing, bodies moving—and there’s Silas, up in the DJ booth, headphones on, spinning tracks like he’s untouchable. He’s cool, detached, all focus, hands moving smooth over the decks, and I spot him right away—tall, quiet, dark hair falling in his eyes. Something about him pulls me over, like a dare I can’t ignore.
I weave through the crowd, quick, dodging elbows and spilled drinks, and lean on the booth, grinning wide. “Hey,” I say, loud, voice cutting over the bass. He glances down, slow, eyes sharp and gray, like I’m some kid interrupting his flow. “What?” he says, flat, not breaking his rhythm, hands steady on the controls. I laugh, short, leaning closer. “You’re too serious,” I say, sharp, teasing him, pushing just to see what he’ll do. He smirks, small, barely there, and keeps spinning, like I’m not worth the time. “Go dance,” he says, low, nodding at the floor, voice rough but calm.
I don’t move—can’t, not with him looking like that, all cool and unbothered. “Make me,” I say, loud, grinning bigger, daring him now, my pulse jumping. His eyes flick to mine, quick, and there’s a spark—small, real, cutting through his mask. He shakes his head, slow, like I’m trouble he doesn’t want, but I see it—tension, playful, sharp, simmering there from the start. “You’re a pain,” he says, quiet, but his lips twitch, almost a smile, and I laugh again, bold, stepping back a little. “You love it,” I say, fast, tossing it out like a challenge.
He doesn’t answer, just drops a track—hard, fast, beat like fire rolling through the room. My skin prickles, deep, and I feel it—he’s playing for me, answering my push with sound. I hit the floor, quick, moving to it—sharp spins, loose pops, feet flying, every step loud and free. The crowd’s buzzing, shouting, but I don’t care—I’m dancing for Silas, reckless and raw, throwing everything into it. I glance up, fast, and he’s watching, steady, cool slipping just a bit, hands tweaking the bass like he’s talking back. It’s a game—me with my moves, him with the music—and it’s electric, pulling us in.
The set ends, crowd roaring, and he steps down, slow, wiping sweat off his forehead. I’m there, fast, sweaty too, grinning wide again. “Not bad,” I say, loud, nudging his shoulder, light but sure, testing him still. He looks at me, steady, gray eyes locking on mine, and says, “You either,” voice low, rougher now, like there’s more behind it. I feel it—attraction, hot, tugging at me—and I mock him again, quick. “Still too serious,” I say, sharp, but I’m stuck, watching him, fascinated already. Our hands brush when I stick mine out, bold. “Nico,” I say, loud. He takes it, slow, grip firm. “Silas,” he says, quiet, and that’s it—hooked, caught, even if we don’t admit it.
I linger there, night stretching—him spinning more, me dancing, trading looks, small challenges in every move. He’s cool, yeah, but I see through it—fire under that calm, matching mine, and I push harder, teasing, daring, until the club’s closing and we’re laughing, easy, outside in the cold. “See you around,” I say, fast, walking off with my crew, but I know it’s not over—those glances, that pull, it’s just starting.
The memory snaps, slow, and I’m back—motel, dark, Silas real beside me, not that kid in the booth anymore. My heart’s racing, same spark hitting me, but bigger, heavier now, because it’s not just fun—it’s everything. I’m staring at him, hard, his jaw tight, eyes scanning the room, and it slams me—I’m falling again, deep, terrifying, because he’s all I’ve got left. The threats, the traitors, my career crashing—it’s him holding me up, like that night, steady when I’m spinning out.
He turns, slow, catching my look, and frowns, soft. “What is it?” he asks, quiet, voice gentle, like he knows I’m off. My throat’s tight, words stuck—how do I say it? That he’s my anchor, that I’m scared of how much I need him? I turn away, fast, hiding it, chest pounding with too much—past and now mixing, pulling me under. He steps closer, slow, hand brushing my arm, light, and I feel it—same dare, same pull, but realer, scarier.
My phone buzzes, loud, slicing the quiet, and I grab it, quick, screen bright in the dark. It’s a text, no number, just one word—sharp, cold: “Lena.” My breath stops, and I stare, gut twisting—Lena, the traitor, her name flashing there, clear as a knife. Silas leans in, fast, seeing it too, and his hand tightens on my arm, steady, pulling me back from the edge.