The word predator has a way of echoing.
It had bounced around the empty chambers of Silas's house all night, louder than the ticking of the grandfather clock. He had sat in his study with a glass of bourbon, staring at the embers in the fireplace, wondering at what point he had become the villain in a story he hadn't even realized he was writing. He was a man of reputation, a man of honor, but he wasn't blind. He knew what a forty-year-old man looked like leaning against a brick wall in the dark, watching a girl half his age.
He hadn't been following her. But he hadn't exactly been trying to look away, either.
The next morning, the frost was thicker, turning the world into a brittle, white landscape. Silas walked into the diner with his head down, his jaw set. He didn't look toward the back booth. He sat at the counter, the swivel stool groaning under his weight.
Martha was there, her gray hair tucked neatly into a hairnet, a damp rag in her hand. She looked tired, the lines around her eyes deeper than they had been a week ago.
"You look like you slept on a bed of nails, Silas," Martha said, sliding a mug of coffee in front of him without being asked.
"Something like that," Silas rumbled. He wrapped his hands around the mug, seeking the warmth. He looked toward the kitchen door, his pulse jumping a jagged beat. "The new girl. Alina. Is she in today?"
Martha's hand paused on the counter. She sighed, a long, weary sound that made her shoulders sag. She leaned in closer, lowering her voice so the other regulars wouldn't hear.
"She's in the back, scrubbing the prep tables. I told her to stay out of sight for a bit. She's... she's having a hard go of it, Silas."
Silas felt a twinge of guilt. "I ran into her outside the Anchor last night. I think I overstepped. Or maybe she just doesn't like my face."
Martha looked at him, her expression softening into something pained. "It isn't you, honey. It isn't even about the diner. Alina's my niece. My sister's only girl."
Silas looked up, surprised. He'd known Martha for twenty years, but she kept her family business private.
"I didn't know," Silas said.
"Nobody did. My sister lived up in Savannah. She passed away four months ago—cancer. Quick and ugly," Martha whispered, her voice cracking. "Alina was her whole world. The girl dropped out of her last year of college to nursing-home her mama, watched her fade to nothing, and then found out her mama had mortgaged the house to pay for the treatments. She lost everything in ninety days. The house, the car, the future. Everything."
Silas felt a cold stone settle in his stomach. The "snappy" attitude, the "bored" eyes, the "predator" comment—it wasn't just youth. It was a girl who had been hollowed out by grief and had nothing left but her claws.
"I took her in because she had nowhere else to go," Martha continued, wiping at a stray tear. "But she feels like she's in a cage. She's twenty-one, Silas. She should be at formals and worrying about exams, not serving hash to old men in a town that feels like a graveyard to her. She's broken, and she's trying real hard to pretend she's just mean."
Silas looked at the swinging kitchen door. He thought about his own twenty-first year—the dirt, the debt, the smell of his father's sickroom. He knew that cage. He knew the bars intimately.
"She called me a perv, Martha," Silas said, a ghost of a smile touching his lips, though his eyes remained somber.
Martha let out a short, watery laugh. "She's got a mouth like a sailor when she's scared. Don't take it to heart. She's just waiting for the next bad thing to happen. She thinks everyone who's nice has an angle."
"I don't have an angle," Silas said, and for the first time in his life, he wasn't entirely sure if he was telling the truth.
He didn't want her money. He didn't want her land. But he wanted to see her smile—just once—without the armor. He wanted to take that haunted look out of her eyes. And he knew, with a sudden and terrifying certainty, that his "gentleman" routine wasn't going to be enough to reach her.
"I know you don't," Martha said, patting his hand. "You're a good man, Silas Mercer. Maybe the only one left in this zip code. Just... be patient with her. She's a wounded bird, and those are the ones that peck the hardest."
The kitchen door swung open, and Alina stepped out. She saw Silas sitting there, and her entire body stiffened. She didn't look bored today. She looked terrified, her eyes darting between him and her aunt.
Silas didn't say a word. He didn't tip his hat. He just looked at her—really looked at her—and nodded once. A silent acknowledgement of her pain.
She stared back for a second, her grip tightening on the tray she was holding, before she turned and bolted back into the kitchen.
Silas took a slow sip of his coffee. It was hot, bitter, and exactly what he deserved.
Wounded bird, he thought. No. She's a wildfire. And I think I'm ready to get burned.