Page 24 of Silent Oaths
Maxwelljust shrugs, a stupid grin on his face. “I’mgoing toMadhouseafter this.Didn’tfeel like changing,” he says casually, as if he’s not completely out of place in the crowd.
Thisfucking guy.
Ican feel my eyes twitching asIwatch him saunter through the room like he owns it.Itake a slow, controlled breath.Thiswhole fucking evening is already getting out of hand.
Asif the night hasn’t tested me enough,I’mhanded the patriarchal cloak.Itfeels heavier thanIthought it would, like it’s suffocating me beforeIeven put it on.Thedark velvet is thick and oppressive, and the golden threads running through it catch the light just enough to make it feel like it’s more of a symbol of power than any of the men in the room.Themoment it settles on my shoulders,Ican feel the weight of every expectation.
Iforce down the irritation clawing at my ribs.
Thehead priest steps forward. “It’stime,Theodore.Joinme at the altar.”
Theroom falls quiet asIapproach the front of the room.Everyone’seyes are on me, and it feels like a thousand invisible hands pressing down on my chest, each one trying to see ifI’mworthy of what they think is mine.
“Placeyour right hand on the altar,TheodoreWhitmore,” the priest intones.
Iput my palm on the cold stone, andIfeel a small tremor shake through me.
Thepriest hovers the silver symbol of our bloodline over me.
Atits center, a bold, interlockingWandVare carved deep into the metal, the edges elongated into claw-like extensions that stretch out, almost like talons.Encirclingthe letters, thin, winding etchings resemble the twisting roots of a tree.Small, dagger-like points extend from the outer ring, a silent promise of bloodshed.
Ican feel the weight of the priest’s words as he begins the chant.Thewords are ancient, wrapped in powerIdon’t fully understand.It’sa part of the ritual, but something about it still makes my skin prickle.
“TheWhitmorelegacy runs deep, and you,Theodore, are the next to carry that line.Youare the one chosen to bear the mantle of patriarch, the one who will lead us through the future, through the trials of our past.”Thepriest’s voice drops to a whisper, his hand lowering to grip my wrist.Thecool press of metal meets my skin before searing heat erupts against my flesh.
Igrit my teeth as the silver brand digs into the soft skin of my inner wrist, the sharp scent of burning flesh curling into the air.Thepain is white-hot, spreading through my veins like fire, butIrefuse to flinch.
Theseal of theWhitmorefamily burns into my skin.
Thepriest finally pulls away, and the pain dulls to a deep, insistent throb.Themark is there now, forever,Father’sclaim etched into me likeI’mnothing more than property.Butthis legacy belongs tome.
“Withthis mark, you are bound to this family.Maythe blood of our ancestors guide you.Maythe power of our name give you strength.”
Igrit my teeth against the pressure building behind my eyes, against the surge of power filling the air.It’stoo much.
Whenhe steps back,Ipull my hand from the altar.
Thepriest bows his head, and the rest of the room follows suit.Theformalities are over.
I’mthe patriarch now.
Maxwell’svoice cuts through the air like a goddamn dagger. “Soyou’re the king now, huh?”Hisgrin is wide.
Idon’t respond.
Iturn, meeting the gaze of the men in the room.Someof them look away while others hold my stare, probably already calculating what they think they can get from me.Ican practically hear their thoughts—how they’ll try to manipulate and use me.
I’mnot the naïve boyIonce was.
Iwon’t be their puppet.
Notnow.Notever.
11
THEODORE
Themeeting is over, but the weight of it still lingers.
