Page 38 of Silent Oaths
Iimmediately avert my gaze, running a hand down my face. “Forfuck’s sake,Maxwell.”
Insteadof showing an ounce of shame, he jumps off the bed, standing tall.
“Well,Theodore,” he drawls, stepping forward. “Itlooks like you’d also love to join in on the fun, wouldn’t you?”
Hestretches his arms over his head; then, as if to really sell it, he does a few slow lunges.
Ishake my head.HowdidIget stuck with this guy?
Julianscoffs.Then, without even looking, he grabs a pillow and hurls it atMaxwell’shead.
Itsmacks him right in the face, andMaxwellstumbles back, rubbing his forehead.
“Oneday,I’mputting a lock on my memories of walking in on you assholes.”
Maxwellsmirks. “Oneday, you’re gonna walk in andnotwant to leave.”
Iscowl. “Fuckoff.”
Despitemy words and the ridiculousness of catching them like thisagain,I’mnot mad.
Ishould be jealous of their bond, the way they always seem to gravitate toward each other, no matter where we are.Theycommunicate without words, some silent understanding that’s justtheirs.ButI’mnot.
JulianandMaxwellneed each other in waysIdon’t fully understand, andI’dnever come between them.
Unless, of course, it was to maybe… watch.
Thethought slides into my mind unbidden, tempting.
Mydick twitches in my slacks.
Iinhale sharply.Notnow,Theo.
Istraighten and roll my shoulders back, forcing the fantasy away.Clearingmy throat,Isay, “Ineed you to follow me.”
Maxwellraises a brow, still smirking. “No, thanks.”
Igive him a flat look.
Juliansighs from the bed. “Where?”
“Thelibrary.”Iturn to the door, not waiting to see if they’ll follow.Iknow they will. “Ihave something to show you.”
Behindme,Ihear the rustle of blankets and the creak of the bed asJulianrises.
“Nowyou’ve got me curious, brother,”Maxwellhums.
Whenwe step into the massive library,Ilead them to the long oak desk near the center of the room, where an assortment of books is stacked haphazardly.Someof them are fromSt.Dismas—the ones we managed to sneak out before we were pulled from the orphanage—but most are from here.
I’vespent the last couple of months scouring these shelves, looking for answers.Thereare entire volumes dedicated to theWhitmores, toVanguard—which, from whatI’vepieced together, is some kind of exclusive club, asociety.
Ilower myself into the leather chair behind the desk, running my fingers along the polished surface.Julianstands rigid, scanning the books piled high in front of us but keeping his hands to himself.Maxwell, as expected, has no such reservations.Hepicks up one of the tomes, flipping through its brittle pages, whistling low under his breath.
“Thisplace is a fucking goldmine,” he mutters.
“You’vebeen digging through all this for weeks now.Didyou finally find something?”Julianasks.
Myfingers graze the spine of a nearby book asIspeak.
