Page 60 of Silent Oaths
Atleast in this room,Ican pretend none of it ever happened.Here,Istill belong tomyself.
Myeyes squeeze shut, but it doesn’t help.
Ilet out a groan.
Thememory ofTheodore’svoice through the door won’t leave me alone.Iwas an orphan.Bothparents dead.Leftas an infant.
Aweek ago,Iwouldn’t have cared.Butnow, it sits heavy in my chest in a wayIdon’t want to analyze.BecauseIget it.Iknow what it’s like to be left behind, to have no history, no past to claim as your own.Nomatter how muchIhate him for what he’s done, that part of his story is somethingIcan’t ignore.
Still, it doesn’t excuse his behavior.Noneof this does.
Yetsomething shifts inside me.Notenough to forgive, but enough to reconsider.
Idrag a hand down my face, sighing.Ididn’t ask to be a part of this, butIam, and if there’s even the slightest chanceIcan help put an end to it, then maybe…
MaybeIshould.
Isit up.Ican do something.
Swingingmy legs over the edge of the bed,Ipush to my feet and move toward the small table near the window.Ipull open the drawer and sift through its contents, fingers closing around a notebook and a couple of pens.Thiswill do.
Idrop into the chair and flip open the first blank page, tapping the pen against the lined paper.Then,Istart writing.
Pageafter page,Iscribble down every scrap of informationI’vegathered—everything the brothers have told me, thingsI’veoverheard.Ipiece it together like a puzzle, forming a rough picture of the truth lurking beneath the surface ofVanguard, of theWhitmores, ofallof it.
Myhand cramps from how fastI’mmoving, butIdon’t stop.Ican’tstop.Thisis whatIdo best.Thisis howIfight.
Bythe timeIset the pen down, my heart is racing.
Thisisn’t much, but it’s a start.
Iclose the notebook and run my fingers over the cover, exhaling deeply.Theweight that has been pressing down on me for the past week doesn’t feel as suffocating anymore.
Ipush back from the table and stand.
Mystomach growls, and my eyes flick to the food tray that has been sitting there for hours.Thebread roll on the plate is probably cold and stale, butIdon’t care.Isnatch it up and take a bite, the taste dry but satisfying.
Thistime,Idon’t forget to cover myself.Igrab a sweater and a pair of joggers from the pile of clothes they’ve left for me and slip them on.They’renot mine, but they fit well enough.
Ican only assume this wasJulian’sdoing.He’ssuch acare bear.
Thethought softens something in my chest, butIshake my head quickly to push it away.
No,Isabel.Youdon’t trust them.Theyare your enemies.
Isteel myself, straighten my shoulders, and move toward the door.
WhenIround the corner into the living room, gripping the notebook tight in my hand, the familiar buzz of a tattoo gun hums through the space, vibrating in my bones.
Theodoreis seated in an armchair, one leg crossed over the other, a book open in his lap.Hedoesn’t even acknowledge me at first, too absorbed in whatever he’s reading.
Julianis crouched low, his expression one of pure focus as he works, the tattoo gun steady in his gloved hand.Adisposable barrier sheet covers the couch beneath them, and a small workstation is set up besideJulianwith an array of ink caps, a tattoo machine resting on a sterile pad, and antiseptic wipes.Hisbrows are knit together, jaw tight in concentration.
Maxwellis sprawled across the couch, arms tucked behind his head.Hisshirt is discarded, exposing the defined lines of his abdomen, leading down to the fresh inkJulianis carving just above his pelvic bone.Hiseyes are closed, the ghost of a smirk playing on his lips, like he’s enjoying the pain.
Thevision of all three of them like this—completely at ease, in their element—sends a sharp, unwelcome buzz through my body.
It’sunfair how attractive they are.Seeingthem like this immediately reminds me of the last timeIwas here with them.
