Page 44 of Silent Oaths
“Well, congratulations, becauseIscreamed anyway.”
Julianchuckles, looking back down at his sketchpad.
Ishift awkwardly, unsure what to do. “Howlong have you been sitting there?”
Hedoesn’t look up. “Longenough.Iknow you’ve been coming down here every night.You’renot exactly quiet.”
Mystomach drops.Embarrassmentfloods my body, hotter than the steam from my shower earlier. “You’vebeen watching me?”
“Whatdo you think?” he says, his pencil scratching lightly against the paper.
Ah, yes.I’mtheir prisoner.
“Relax.I’mnot gonna tell anyone.”
“Good,”Imutter, shifting uncomfortably. “Becausethere’s nothing to tell.”
Juliandoesn’t respond immediately.Hejust keeps sketching, focusing on the page.Itake a step toward the doorway, ready to retreat to my room, when his voice stops me again.
“Youdon’t have to sneak around, you know,” he says without looking up. “Noone’s going to stop you from eating.”
Thestatement catches me off guard, twisting something in my gut like a splinter lodged too deep to pull out.Idon’t know what to do with it.
However, instead of heading back upstairs,Ifind myself lingering at the edge of the living room.Myfeet seem to move on their own, carrying me closer to the soft glow of the lamp whereJuliansits.Iberate myself for doing it, butIdo it anyway.
Carefully,Istep around the coffee table and lower myself onto the couch, leaving a decent space between us.Juliandoesn’t acknowledge my presence as his pencil continues its soft scratching on the page.
“Whatare you doing?”Iask beforeIcan stop myself.
“Drawing.”
Iroll my eyes at his clipped answer. “Drawingwhat?”
Atthis, he pauses.Hispencil stills, resting lightly against the paper as he exhales.Slowly, he lifts his head, and his gaze meets mine.
Heturns the sketchbook toward me.
Mybreath catches in my throat.
It’sme.
Myown face stares back at me, rendered in graphite with stunning detail.Thesharpness of my eyes, the curve of my lips, the soft fall of my hair—it’s all there, perfectly captured.
Theexpression on my face in the portrait is... vulnerable.
It’sas ifJuliansomehow sketched the parts of meItry so hard to hide—the fear, the anger, the loneliness—and laid them bare on the page.
Myfingers hover over the sketch, not quite touching it. “Youdrew me?”
Julianshrugs, setting the sketchpad on his lap. “Yeah.”
“But... why?”
Heshrugs again, like it’s not a big deal. “Idon’t know.It’sjust a hobby.”Heleans back in the chair. “AndI’vebeen seeing a lot of you lately, so…”
Idon’t know what to say.Ican’t stop staring at the portrait.Howdid he manage to make it look so alive?So... me?
“CanIkeep it?”Iblurt out beforeIcan second-guess myself.
