Page 84 of Oath

He wasalwayswatching. Doors, corners, mirrors—my face.But I found his blind spot. More specifically, I found hissnow boots.

Most of his shoes he kept almost obsessively neat and stored away. He polished them, kept them in perfect shape, thewhole nine yards. His snow boots, however, had to stay in the mudroom like all of ours after being outside.

So I may have, possibly, filled them with frozen peas.

Later that afternoon while working on AB’s latest mental puzzle of plug and play, I heard a shout from the hallway, followed by something that sounded like, “What the fuck?”

Two points for me.

When AB glanced at me, I just grinned and kept on working.

Voodoo got me back.

He replaced the sugar in the ceramic jar with salt. And not just “oops, a dash” levels. He went fullDead Sea. I took one sip of my morning flat white and just—froze.

Slowly, deliberately, I set the cup down.

His smirk was adorable even if that one hurt.

Back to one point.

Bones hadthis thing about control.

Everything in the gym had to be perfect. Gear lined up. Mats cleaned. Shoes off the mat. No phones, no gum, no water breaks untilhecalled them.

So naturally, I decided that was the best place for my next act of sabotage. It began with his training sweats.

They kept spares in the laundry room. Big, bulky things that could double as body bags. He had a few that he traded out regularly, so late into the night after the boys were all asleep, I crept downstairs to sew the bottom hem of each of the pant legstogether. It was a lot easier than I expected, but I had picked up a few skills during all those fashion fittings.

The next morning, he stalked into the gym like a drill sergeant in a snowstorm. Cold, cranky, and five minutes behind schedule. I was already there, stretching. So innocent.

“Grace,” he said in a terse voice.

“I’m here, all stretching and everything.” I kept it sweet and upbeat, even gave him a smile.

“Good, let’s get started.” We squared off on the mat. He went easy at first. He always did. Not a lot of movement from him, feet always together and mostly just making me work for it. The man had talent. Then I landed a hip toss that surprised us both.

“Again,” he snapped.

This time, he came in harder, and then it happened.

He shifted his weight, tried to step wide to catch my leg in some kind of trip—and his feet stopped short.

He stumbled.

Hard.

The tangled hem yanked his legs together mid-move, and down he went like a redwood in slow motion. I didn’t even touch him.

The sound when he hit the mat? Music.

Bones just lay there a second, staring at the ceiling like he was calculating how much dignity he had left. Then, slowly, he sat up. Pulled at the hem of his pants. Realized.

He looked at me. I smiled.

“Oh no,” I said. “Did someone sabotage your gear? That must be so frustrating.”

He didn’t say a word.