Page 59 of Silent Oaths
ISABEL
Ilisten toTheodore’sfootsteps retreat, each one echoing in my chest, making my ribs feel like they’re caving in.Hehesitated.Icould hear it in his breath and the way his weight shifted outside the door.Fora second,Ithought he might push his way inside, force me to face him.
Buthe left.
Ishould feel victorious, butIdon’t.Ishould relish the fact thatImadeTheodoreWhitmorewalk away.Instead,Ijust feel… hollow.Hisadmission—the raw confession that he needs me—has left me reeling.Ican hardly believe it, and nowI’min shambles, the weight of his words shattering whatever resolveIhad left.
I’mback in bed, curled up in the same positionI’vebeen in for days, limbs stiff, my body aching in placesIdidn’t even know could hurt.It’spathetic,Iknow it is.Butwhat’s the alternative?Wanderaround this house likeIbelong here?Likethey didn’t steal me away and strip me of my choices?
Thetray of food they left me this morning sits untouched by the window.Ishould eat, butIcan’t bring myself to move.
Ihate this.Ihate how quiet everything feels again now thatTheodoreis gone.
Isqueeze my eyes shut, willing slumber to take me under.MaybeifIsleep long enough,I’llwake up in my own bed, in my own life, with noWhitmorebrothers to haunt me.
Whata joke.IknowI’mnot getting out of this so easily.
Iroll onto my back, staring up at the ceiling.
Theidea of stepping outside this room feels pointless.
It’snot likeIcan go anywhere.Andworse—Idon’t know ifIevenwantto.
Awave of nausea rolls through me whenIthink about facing them.Theshame burns hot and deep, simmering beneath my skin like an infection.
HowcouldIlet them do that to me?HowcouldIletmyselffall apart like that in front of them?
Ipress my palms over my eyes, blocking out the memory, but it’s useless.Itkeeps replaying, every sensation still raw and vivid.Theway they touched and looked at me like theyownedme…
Ihate them for taking me.Iloathethem for keeping me here and treating me like some kind of plaything they can tease and break apart.
ButIhate myself even more for how muchIlikedit.
Mybody betrayed me.Evenwhen my mind screamed at me to resist, my body melted, craved,begged.Ican still feelJulian’sfingers in my hair, the ghost ofMaxwell’sbreath against my skin, the weight ofTheodore’sstare watching me unravel.
Imade a spectacle of myself.Weak.Brittle.Needy.
Fuckmy life.
Mystomach twists in knots, shame curling in my gut like a viper.
Ishould have fought harder.Instead,Ilet them reduce me to nothing but gasps, moans, and trembling limbs.
Asmuch asIenjoyedit,Ican’t shake the feeling of being used.
Itmakes me sick.
Idon’t belong to them, and yet, they made me feel likeIdid, likeIhad no choice but to submit.
Howthe hell amIsupposed to walk out of this room and look them in the eye after that?
Ilet out a slow, unsteady breath, blinking at the ceiling.Idon’t know how to reconcile the warring parts of myself—the part that stillwantsthem, that aches for their touch even asIdrown in shame, and the part that knows better.
Thisisn’t normal.
Iroll onto my side, curling in on myself.
It’ssafer here.
