Forty Five

Forty Five
Chapter 45: Silas POV

The scent of salt and iron didn't belong in this dusty human tavern. It belonged to the shores of the Fae realm—specifically, the jagged cliffs where Draco’s hunters bled their prey.

Beside me, Anne stiffened. She didn't have my tracking senses, but she wasn't stupid. She could feel the sudden drop in the room’s temperature, the way the ambient chatter of the human patrons instantly died out.

Hunters.

"Silas," she whispered, her fingers tightening against my palm. The playful defiance in her eyes was gone, replaced by a cold, sharp panic.

"Don't move," I commanded, my voice dropping into a register so low it was barely audible over the roaring of my own blood. My Fae vision locked onto the two figures standing in the doorway. They wore heavy, mud-caked cloaks, but beneath the fabric, I caught the unmistakable glint of spelled silver—blades forged specifically to tear through Fae flesh and bind a witch’s magic.

They weren't looking at the bar. They were scanning the booths.

"Out the back," I muttered, sliding out of the booth and pulling Anne with me. I kept my body positioned between her and the door, my hand gripping her wrist so tightly I knew it would leave a mark later. I didn't care. If they took her, she was dead. If they took her, I was dead.

We slipped through the kitchen, ignoring the startled shout of a human cook, and burst into the freezing alleyway. The night air hit us like a physical blow.

"Where are we going?" Anne panted, her boots skidding on the wet cobblestones as I dragged her toward the tree line at the edge of town.

"The woods," I growled. "We lose them in the brush, then we circle back to the safehouse."

But the woods weren't empty.

The moment we crossed the threshold of the thick pines, a high-pitched, agonizing shriek pierced the air. It wasn't the roar of a hunter. It was smaller. Sharper.

I stopped so hard Anne slammed into my back.

"What is that?" she gasped, her hands clutching at my jacket. "Silas, that sounds like a kid."

"It's a trap," I snapped, my eyes darting through the shadows. The feral, protective urge of the mate bond was screaming at me to get Anne out of the open, to shield her from whatever malice was lurking in the dark. "We keep moving."

"No!" Anne pulled back, breaking my grip. Her eyes flashed with that stubborn, infuriating wood-witch fire. "Listen to it! That's not a hunter."

Another sob tore through the trees—a choked, terrified wail that ended in a strange, melodic hum.

My breath hitched. That hum wasn't human. It was a localized frequency of magic. A volatile, chaotic blend of a witch’s aura and the iridescent shimmer of Fae blood.

A half-breed. A child caught in the crossfire of a realm she didn't belong to.

"Anne, stay behind me," I ordered, the assassin in me entirely overriding the drunk I used to be. I didn't wait for her reply. I moved toward the sound, my steps entirely silent against the damp earth.

We found her crouched in the hollow of a rotting oak tree. She couldn't have been older than six. Her clothes were torn, her skin smudged with dirt and dried blood from a nasty gash on her forearm. But it was her magic that caught my attention—it was bleeding out of her in erratic, purple sparks, a desperate defense mechanism from a child who had no idea how to wield it.

I braced myself for Anne to rush forward, but instead, she went perfectly still, her eyes wide as she looked at me. She was waiting to see what the monster would do. She was waiting for me to treat this child like an inconvenience. An obstacle.

I looked at the girl. Her tiny shoulders were shaking so hard she could barely breathe. She looked up, her tear-filled eyes catching the golden rings of my Fae stare, and she shrank deeper into the wood.

"Are... are you going to hurt me?" she squeaked.

Something shifted in my chest. A strange, unfamiliar warmth cracked through the icy walls I’d spent centuries building around my heart. I didn't see a security risk. I saw the screams of the people I hadn't saved in the Fae realm. I saw a fragile thing that the world was trying to crush.

I saw Theo my friend. The one I couldn't save. I saw a million people reflected in this girl's face. She belonged to someone.

I dropped to both knees in the mud. I made myself smaller, lowering my head so I wasn't looming over her. I pulled off my leather gloves and held my palms up, open and empty.

"Hey there," I said. My voice didn't sound like the ruthless Fae assassin who had slaughtered Draco's kin. It was a low, warm rumble—the tone I used to use a lifetime ago, before the blood, before the alcohol. "You're okay, little one. I promise. The monsters aren't catching you tonight."

The girl sniffled, her gaze darting from my hands to my face. "You're a Fae a dark one," she whispered.

"I am," I murmured, offering her a slow, genuine smile. "But I'm the kind who chases the bad ones away. What's your name?"

"Lily."

"That's a beautiful name, Lily." I reached out with agonizing slowness, letting my large, scarred hand hover near her face before gently brushing a tangled strand of hair from her cheek. My touch was lighter than a feather, terrified of breaking her. "Can I look at your arm? I want to make it stop hurting."

Lily hesitated, then, with a tiny sob, she crawled out of the hollow and threw her small arms around my neck.

I froze for a fraction of a second, completely unequipped for the sudden weight of a child trusting me. But my instincts took over. I wrapped one arm around her small frame, pulling her against my chest, while I used my teeth to tear a strip of fabric from my own shirt.

"Anne," I called softly, keeping my eyes on the child. "I need your hands. Hold the cloth down while I bind it."

Anne stepped out of the shadows. She was staring at me as if she were seeing a ghost. There was no fear in her expression anymore—just a profound, breathless awe that made the mate bond in my chest hum like a live wire. She knelt beside me, her fingers trembling slightly as she helped me secure the bandage around Lily's arm.

As soon as the pain eased, Lily’s erratic magic began to quiet down, her eyelids growing heavy against my shoulder. Within minutes, she was fast asleep, her breathing leveling out against my neck.

I stood up slowly, lifting the child with one arm, supporting her head with the practiced ease of someone who remembered what it was like to protect life rather than end it.

I turned to Anne. She was still on her knees in the dirt, looking up at me, her deep eyes searching my face. The tavern’s heavy, suffocating tension was gone, replaced by something entirely shifting between us.

The bond was taking form in her and in me. We were both morphing into different people. Two broken people who were somehow healing each other- when the world left us both lost and broken.

"You're... really good with her," Anne breathed, her voice a fragile whisper in the quiet woods. "I didn't think..."

"You didn't think a psycho could be gentle?" I finished for her, stepping closer until she had to tilt her head up to look at me. The vulnerability in my own chest was terrifying, but with Anne looking at me like I was something worth saving, the armor and the joke and jabs I sent her way constantly didn't't feel necessary anymore. Only the truth stood before me and I was letting the truth guide me in this moment.

I offered her a small, bittersweet smile, looking down at the sleeping girl before locking my eyes back onto hers.

"I don't show this to anyone, Anne," I admitted softly, the absolute truth cutting through my usual defenses. "But... you bring this out of me. Being around you, trying to keep you safe... it makes me want to be the kind of man who deserves to hold something this fragile." I looked down at her but my hands moved on their own accord and motioned between the two of us too. I watched as I could swear Anne's cheeks turned pink in the dark.

Anne’s breath hitched, her gaze dropping to my mouth before rising back to my eyes, a beautiful, ruined understanding dawning on her face.

But the moment was cut shor
t. From the edge of the woods, the distinct crunch of a silver blade drawing from a leather sheath echoed through the trees.

The hunters had found our trail. Fuck. I couldn't wait to kill Draco. He was a constant cock block.