Page 23 of Silent Oaths
Achuckle rumbles out of me beforeIcan stop it. “What’sshe doing now?”
“Shewon’t eat,”Juliangrowls. “Itried everything.Broughther food, left it in the room, even threatened to letMaxwellcook for her, but nothing works.She’sacting like a goddamn feral cat.”
“She’sstubborn.Youcan’t fault her for that.”
“Faulther?I’mabout to throw her out the damn window.”
Inthe background,Isabel’svoice rises again. “Ihope you choke on your own arrogance, you pretentious jackass!”
Thatmakes me outright laugh. “She’sgot a mouth on her.”
“Noshit,”Juliansnaps. “I’mnot calling for commentary,Theodore.Whatthe hell doIdo?”
Istep out of the elevator, adjusting the lapels of my jacket. “Figureit out yourself.You’rea grown man, aren’t you?”
Julian’sresponse is a string of cuss words inSpanish, rapid-fire and biting.Heends the call beforeIcan retort, leaving me grinning like an idiot in the middle ofVanguard’sblack marble hallway.
Ican’t help but admire her fire.It’snot every day that someone dares to stand their ground against aWhitmore.
Sincethe moment we tookIsabel, she has been nothing but a storm, impossible to ignore.
Shehurls insults like knives, snapping at us any chance she gets, her fury burning hotter with each passing day.Sherefuses to eat more than a few bites and makes damn sure weknowshe’s rejecting everything we give her, knocking over trays, spitting venom with every word.
Shecalls us cowards, monsters.Whenwe try to ignore her, she gets even louder, demanding answers, demanding freedom, never letting up.
Sheclings to her anger like it’s armor, keeping us at a distance with sharp glares.
Mostpeople inIsabel’sposition would be broken by now, worn down by fear or desperation, but not her.
Evenwhen exhaustion tugs at her, whenIcan see the hunger gnawing at her, she doesn’t cave.It’sinfuriating.
Itwould be easier if she broke.Ifshe cowered.Ifshe let fear swallow her whole.
ButIsabeldoesn’t know how to kneel.Yet.
Iwalk down the hall, toward the double doors ahead.
WhenIpush them open,I’mimmediately hit by the stifling heat of the room.It’sfull of men already in their masks and cloaks, and my stomach churns at the sight.Theylook fucking ridiculous, every single one of them.Ican’t believeIhave to wear that damn thing too.
It’sjust all so beneath me.
Idon’t even bother with pleasantries.Ilock eyes with one of the waiters and snap, “Scotch.Now.”Thetension is crawling up my spine, andIneed something to take the edge off beforeIlose my cool.
Thechatter around me fades as one of my father’s old associates sidles up with a fake smile, offering his condolences. “I’msorry for your loss,Theodore.Lionelwas a good man.”Hisvoice drips with insincerity, andIcan’t help but want to roll my eyes.
“Thankyou,”Isay, forcing out the words.Idon’t care.It’sall just an act.Hiswords don’t even register with me.Ishake his hand because it’s expected, but that’s where it ends.
BeforeIcan escape, another man approaches, his tone overly enthusiastic. “I’mexcited to see what the new generation ofWhitmoreswill do.I’dlove to meet with you and discuss some opportunities.”
Myfists tighten.Theydon’t care about legacy or the family.Theyjust want to use it to line their own pockets, to claw their way up.Inod, my mind already elsewhere, already tired of the show.
Then,IseeMaxwell, andIfreeze for a second, my eyes narrowing.
He’sdressed like he just stepped out of some fever dream.Leatherpants, snug and black.Adistressed shirt probably meant to be edgy, the holes too wide, showing off the tattoos creeping up his chest.There’sa silver chain draped around his neck, the star pendant swinging with every movement—a new addition he only started wearing after we capturedIsabel.Hisboots are polished but untied, like he couldn't be bothered.
It’sexactly what you’d expect fromMaxwell.
Ican’t help myself. “Whatthe fuck are you wearing?”
