Page 91 of Silent Oaths
Myparents, smiling stiffly in front of a pristine white house, dressed like people who thought appearance was the only thing worth saving.
Theydied in that house, burned alive in a fire that gutted every inch of their carefully curated world.
Theirony still tastes sweet on my tongue.Howpoetic it was, the flames devouring the perfect life they tried so hard to protect, as if the universe finally agreed they’d built something worth destroying.
Mysiblings too—they were wiped out in the blaze like they never existed.Awhole family reduced to ash and smoke.
Andyet,Iremain.
Theirmistake.Theirshame.Theson they threw away, still breathing.
Iraise the knife and throw it.
Theblade spins once—twice—before burying itself deep into the canvas with a soft, satisfying thud.
Rightbetween my mother’s eyes.
Theknife still quivers where it landed, humming with the same quiet fury that has been lodged in my chest sinceIwas a kid.Istare at it for another second, then look down atVico.
“Alwaysa good shot,”Imutter asIbrush a thumb over the doll’s cracked cheek before gently placing him back in the top drawer of my desk, laying him carefully as if he were still fragile, still something to be protected.
Myfingers find the hilt of another knife almost instinctively, and without thinking,Ibegin the rhythm: blade to desk, blade to desk, sliding it expertly between the spread of my fingers.
Thehum of it keeps me grounded.
Theorphanage comes back in fragments.Theearly years were the worst.Ihated everyone and everything.
UntilJulianandTheodore.Inno time, they were the most important people in my world.Myfamily, my only constants in a place that never felt safe.
Butit was different withJulian.
Julianwas my first everything.Myfirst love.Mymost lasting one.WhatIfelt for him went deeper than blood, deeper than friendship.
Andnow, there’sIsabel.
Islow the knife down until it’s still, the tip resting between two fingers, my hand steady.
Sheshould’ve been nothing but a pawn, a complication in our carefully laid plans.
Butlast night…
Whenshe walked intoJulian’sroom and saw us together, there wasn’t judgment in her eyes.Therewasn’t fear.Therewas heat, curiosity,hunger.
Themoment still lingers on my skin.Hermouth, her hands, the way she gasped my name like it belonged to her.ThewayJuliantouched her while looking at me, as if we were sharing something sacred.
Itwasn’t supposed to feel like that, and yet, it did.
Aknock at the door pulls me out of my thoughts.Idon’t move right away;Ijust drag the tip of the knife back across the wood once before calling out, “Comein.”
Thedoor creaks open, andJuliansteps inside.
He’salways so damn composed—shoulders squared, chin up, that quiet power he wears like a tailored suit.Notmacho, exactly.No, he’s too refined for that.It’smore like a soldier who knows he doesn’t need to raise his voice to command a room.
Ismirk. “Youpracticing your brooding face for the mirror again, or is this a special visit?”
Juliancloses the door behind him without a word, his eyes flicking to the knife in my hand before he crosses the room and heads for the small bar cart in the corner.Hedoesn’t bother asking; he just pours himself a glass ofTheodore’snewest whiskey.
Hetakes a sip, eyes on me the whole time.There’ssomething in his stare tonight, a glint of heat that tells me he didn’t come here just to shoot the shit.
