Page 7 of Silent Oaths
Thecool night air rushes in through the window, andIlet it settle against my skin, pushing thoughts of my mother to the back of my mind.Tonightis about claiming power.
Themansion looms in the distance, its silhouette cutting through the dark sky like a shadowed king.AsIdrive through the gates,Ican feel the tension in the air.Theguests are already arriving, unaware of what awaits them inside.
Ipark the car in the garage, the engine purring one last time beforeIshut it off.Thesilence is a welcome change after the roar of the streets.
Aquick glance at my watch tells meIhave just enough time.
Mywhite mask slips easily into place, the cool porcelain fitting snugly against my face.
Istep out of the car and head for the main entrance.
Thegame will begin soon.
* * *
Maxwellis already inside,working the room with that damn smirk plastered across his face.Hethrives in crowds like this, soaking up the attention, his charm drawing people in like moths to a flame.It’seffortless for him, andIenvy that sometimes—not thatI’dever admit it.
Istick to the edges whereIbelong.Thenoise, the faces, the constant buzz in the room—it grates on me.Ikeep my head down, my distance measured, careful not to invite attention.Peopledon’t notice me, and that’s howIprefer it.ButIsee them.
Isee everything.
Myrole tonight isn’t to mingle or play the host.It’sto stay invisible and keep my eyes open.
Maxwellcan have the spotlight.
Istep further into the grand hall, the sound of laughter and clinking glasses echoing off the marble floors.
Fatherstands just a few feet away, talking to his associates, wearing a well-honed and practiced smile.Thesight of him twists my stomach, andIsuppress the urge to shudder.
I’venever been a fan ofLionelWhitmore.
Despiteadopting me fromSt.Dismas’HomeforBoys,I’venever once felt thankful for him.Lioneldoesn’t do things out of the goodness of his heart.He’sa man who calculates every move, who twists every action into an advantage.Adoptingus wasn’t about love or filling some paternal void.Itwas about securing pawns—three boys he could groom into perfect tools for his schemes.
ThedayIstepped onto theWhitmoreestate,Istopped being a person.Atthirteen,Iwas the youngest of the three.Naive.Quiet.Desperateto belong.So,Istayed silent.Ilistened, absorbed everything.Theyunderestimated me, just like they always underestimate the quiet ones.
Butthe ones who speak the least are often the most dangerous, the most lethal.
Lionel’sgaze finds me, andIstiffen.Hesnags another glass of amber liquid from a passing tray and makes his way toward me.
Forfuck’s sake.
“Julian,” he greets, his voice carrying a false weight, like he’s trying too hard to sound intimidating.Heextends the glass toward me.
“Father.”Igive him a curt nod and take the drink, my face impassive.
Helingers, his dark eyes studying me likeI’msome problem he has yet to solve. “Ms.Deeringtold me your mother left for the night,” he says, his tone bordering on accusatory. “Doyou have anything to do with that?”
“Yes.”There’sno point in lying.Healways discovers the truth eventually.
Isip the bourbon, letting the bitter heat burn as it runs down my throat.
Lionelnarrows his eyes. “Careto tell me why?”
“No.”
Imeet his gaze, unflinching.Lionelknows better than pushing me whenIdon’t want to talk.Helearned that the hard way.Inthe early years, he tried to beat answers out of me, but asIgrew taller—stronger—that tactic quickly lost its effectiveness.Now, he’s nothing more than a scrawny old man with too much hubris and not enough muscle to back it up.
Lionelstudies me for a beat longer before a thin, humorless smile tugs at his lips. “Fairenough.Thenight will start soon.CanIcount on you and your brothers to participate?”
