Page 89 of Silent Oaths
Maxwellis barely holding on, his body caught betweenJulian’sfrantic rhythm and the relentless strokes of my hand.Helooks at me, his eyes wild, mouth parted, as though he wants to say something but can’t find the words.
“Comefor me, baby,”Iwhisper, stroking him with purpose now, watching him fall apart.
Adesperate cry rips from his throat, his entire body shuddering as pleasure overtakes him.Hishands claw at the sheets, his breath breaking apart into uneven gasps as he spills into my hand, his release warm against my skin.
Thesight of him unraveling completely—so raw, so beautifully undone—sendsJulianover the edge with him.Aguttural moan tears fromJulian’slips as he thrusts deep one last time, his whole body seizing as he spills insideMaxwell.Hisforehead presses againstMaxwell’sshoulder, his breath hot and uneven against his skin.
Fora long moment, allIcan hear is the sound of our breathing, all tangled together.
Maxwellcollapses against me, his body boneless as he catches his breath.Julianleans into him from behind, pressing a lingering kiss to the back of his neck.
Then,Julianexhales deeply, running a hand through his hair before leaning over to grab some towels from his nightstand.Hehands one to me first, his fingers brushing mine in a way that feels almost reverent, and then he passes another toMaxwell, who groans in exhaustion but takes it, nonetheless.
Weclean up in comfortable silence.Thefrantic energy of before has simmered into something more tender.
Oncewe’re done,Juliantosses his towel aside and stretches before slipping back under the covers.Maxwelldoes the same, his body boneless as he drapes an arm over me, pulling me against his chest like it’s second nature.
Thistime, when the three of us settle, it isn’t just about need.It’srestful.
Maxwell’sbreathing evens out first, his fingers still lazily tracing patterns on my skin even as sleep claims him.Julianfollows soon after, the rise and fall of his chest againstMaxwell’sback lulling me into something dangerously close to peace.
Ishould go back to my own room, put space between us beforeIsink any deeper into this.
ButIdon’t.
I’mslowly coming apart.
Eachof them has claimed a different part of me, carved their names into my soul in waysInever saw coming.Theodore, with his intensity, the sharp edges that cut, and the unwavering strength that holds me steady.Julian, with his warmth, his gentle hands, the way he sees me even whenItry to make myself invisible.AndMaxwell—wild, reckless, a stormInever wanted to be caught in, yet hereIam, willingly drowning.
Itold myselfIwould fight them, thatIwould never give in.Butwhat started as resistance has turned into something else entirely.
Thetruth is,Idon’t know whoIam without them anymore.
AsIlet my eyes slip shut,Imake a silent oath.
Iam theirs.Always.
32
MAXWELL
Alittle boy, barely five, stands at the iron gates of theSt.DismasHomeforBoys, his chubby hands clutching the sleeves of a too-big coat.Hisparents are arguing just outside the entrance, their voices muffled.
“Hedoesn’t talk to anyone.Hetalks to himself.Heplays with knives,Rhonda.Hesmiles when he cuts things.He’s... not right,” the father argues.
Thewoman—the mother—kneels in front of the boy.Hereyes are puffy and red.Butshe doesn’t touch him.Doesn’tkiss his forehead or press a trembling hand to his cheek like other mothers usually do.
Thefootsteps of someone approaching echo off the cold stone path.
“Mr. andMrs.Callahan?”
Atall man in a long black cassock steps forward, his salt-and-pepper beard neat, his expression gentle.Hedoesn’t smile, not exactly, but his voice is calm.
“I’mFatherCalloway.Ihelp oversee the home.”
Theparents shift uncomfortably, as if the mere idea of this place is pressing on their skin.
“We’lltake care of him,”FatherCallowaysays, his eyes settling on the boy—not judging, just watching. “Webelieve every child deserves a safe place to land, even the ones who don't quite fit the mold.”
