Page 9 of Silent Oaths
Maxwellgrins, flashing teeth as he leans in conspiratorially. “Darling, you have no idea.”
BeforeIcan say anything, he suddenly leaps to his feet, startling the women.Oneof them gasps, nearly spilling her drink.
“Right, then!Whowants to see a trick?” he announces, spreading his arms wide, like a ringmaster at a circus.
Thewomen exchange amused glances, their curiosity piqued. “Whatkind of trick?” one of them asks, her tone playful.
Maxwellwinks, his grin turning wicked. “Thedangerous kind.”
Istop a few feet away, crossing my arms asIwatch him with a mix of exasperation and mild amusement.
Fromhis jacket pocket, he pulls out a small, wickedly sharp knife, the blade catching the light as he twirls it with practiced ease.
“Max,”Iwarn, my voice low.
Heglances at me, his grin widening. “Relax,Juju.I’mjust having a bit of fun.”
Oneof the women gasps, her eyes going wide. “Isthat real?”
“Realas the moon in the sky, sweetheart,”Maxwellreplies.
Beforeanyone can protest, he tosses the knife into the air.Itspins in a silver blur, and for a split second,I’msure he’s going to let it fall—but of course, he doesn’t.Hecatches it effortlessly by the handle, his movement so fluid, it’s as if the blade is an extension of his hand.
Thewomen applaud, their laughter mingling with nervous gasps.Oneof them fans herself dramatically. “You’reinsane!”
“Guiltyas charged,”Maxwellsays with a bow, but his eyes flick to me, and for a moment, the wild gleam in them sharpens into something more calculated.He’splaying the fool, as always, but beneath the act,Maxwellis anything but careless.
Istep closer, lowering my voice so only he can hear. “Isabelwill be here any minute.Trynot to scare her off before we even start.”
Maxwellsmirks, slipping the knife back into his pocket. “Oh, come on,Julian.Where’sthe fun in that?”
“Thisisn’t a game,”Iremind him.
“Everything’sa game, little brother.Thetrick is making sure you’re the one holding the deck.”
Maxwellis unpredictable, but he’s also strangely magnetic.Peoplecan’t help but be drawn to him, even when they know they probably shouldn’t be.
EvenwhenIknowIshouldn’t be.
Ithas always been this way, even back in the orphanage.Beforewe wereWhitmores, before we had a name that meant anything, there washim.
Maxwellhad this effortless way of making people orbit him, like he belonged to no one, but could own you in a single glance.Hecould talk his way out of trouble or straight into it, and it never mattered, because he always landed on his feet.
AndIalways followed.
Ishould’ve resented it.Maybe, in some ways,Idid.Butit didn’t stop the pull, the way my chest would tighten when he grinned at me from across the room, like we shared a secret only we understood.Itdidn’t stop the way my pulse stuttered whenever he got too close, his voice low and teasing, daring me to push him away.
Inever did.
Evennow, after everything, after years of blood and loyalty and a family name that’s more curse than blessing, that pull is still there.He’sinfuriating, reckless, impossible.Butwhen he looks at me like that—when he tilts his head, smirks like he knowsexactlywhat he’s doing—it makes it hard to breathe.
Ischool my expression, ignoring the warmth creeping up my spine. “Youknow, one of these days, that charm of yours is going to run out.”
Maxwelljust smirks, lazy and knowing. “Noton you,Juju.Neveron you.”
Anddamn him, he’s right.
Withthat, he turns back to his audience, raising his glass in a mock toast. “Todanger, darlings!”
