Silva

Chapter Seven

• Irisa •

—

Silva is the only man who can agitate the sweltering fervor in my blood, curdling it into a thick cluster of frustration.

I didn't want to see him after the auction; I couldn't bear to look him in the eyes and not get hit with a sense of provoked delirium. Oddly enough, those complicated feelings appease me.

I've never felt anything remotely close to what he can do to me.

I bought a book on the connection between brain chemistry and life experiences, and it took me three chapters to know it was a useless book. Someone's life experience can't be explained in detail by someone who has never in the person's shoes.

Anyone can write a book on deep, profound life insights if it's generic enough to include everyone. It's bound to resonate with someone, but I'm not one of them.

The book didn't ignite the will to live in me like the reviewers had mentioned. I felt neutral, almost bored at the dense content.

The proposed guidance to enlighten my confused thoughts isn't here; a moth flocking to light as their navigation system, sort of concept.

I blink away the dryness in my eyes as I stare at the lamppost. There were construction noises near my apartment over the week, and lampposts were being installed to brighten the entire running path.

It has Sherlock Holmes vibes.

"What are you doing?"

My heart jolts wildly behind my ribs, singing a tune of thrill and expectation as I spin around to take in Silva's appearance.

A mash of hazy black dots forms, eating away his face like a burning picture while another black patch forms.

A big hand cradles my jaw to turn my eyes to the other side. He's warm, virtually searing as he keeps his hold there.

Slowly and gradually, the blackness fades to clear his handsome face of disruptions. A sheen of sweat clings to his hairline, his chest moving rapidly to compensate for the sharp runner's high, and the thin long-sleeved shirt rolled up to his elbows.

Intricate ink snakes down his thick wrists, interweaving in meaningless patterns to create a tormenting domain for the faint scars. It's light, and I would've missed it if I wasn't fascinated by his ink.

I wonder what story the scars hold.

His grip tightens as a warning. The golden light cuts into the stormy gray, filling them with an unspeakable halo of wickedness.

"Waiting for you," I admit softly.

His fingers dig into my throat with a brief press before he lets go. "You have my number."

"What if you don't pick up?" I ask, tilting towards the side to relish the fading warmth.

He says with certainty, "I will."

There are times when my thumb hovers over the dial button unknowingly, and my need to hear his voice grows stronger towards the end of the week-long absence. I couldn't bring myself to do it. I think of him and would instantly be filled with the same indignantly heavy fume in my heart.

It's the auction's fault. Silva did nothing wrong. I just hate auctions with a passion.

Would that be called 'hate'? At the very least, it's a strong dislike.

"Always," Silva insists after my silence.

He doesn't mention anything about the week of radio silence, and I don't bring it up either. He's still the same irate, grouchy, and assertive man. Seeing him again restores a sense of normalcy and routine into my life.