Page 24 of The Oath We Give

“In 1815, Adolf Anderssen sacrificed both rooks and the queen to deliver a checkmate against Lionel Kieseritzky.”

Tiny hairs behind my neck rise, chill bumps scattering and spreading across my naked arms. I can barely hear the actual words, my brain not computing sentences.

Only the voice.

Smooth and calm as the night sky.

Silas Hawthorne.

“The final move, 23.Qh6#, gave it the name the Immortal Game.”

Warm hands, much larger than my own, cradle the sides of my head. Fingertips massage the spoken words into the back of my scalp, tendrils of my hair looped through the gaps in his finger as his voice coaxes me toward dry land.

My eyebrows twitch as I open my eyes. Tears slip down my cheeks, a mixture of frustration, confusion, and fear. It’s dark in this hallway, nearly empty, and all I can really make out is the shape of his body.

“Bobby Fischer, the match of the century, happened during the Cold War. People for years talked about this one chess match being a symbol of political war. Fischer won, making him the first American to win the World Chess Championship.”

The intensity starts to wane as he continues rambling. The tightness in my chest gradually releases its grip, and my breathing, though ragged, steadies. He’s talking about what I think is chess history. Such a random, off-base topic, but it’s not the context that has distracted my brain.

It’s his voice.

The same one that mumbled in my ear through a phone speaker and kept me from jumping to my death. It’s a blend of darkness and warmth, a low rumble that emerges from the depths of his chest. A single candle flickering in an abyss of nothingness.

“Shah mat, the king is helpless or the king is defeated, translates to—”

“Checkmate.” I choke on the word.

The Ecstasy is still pumping through my system, the alcohol and crash of adrenaline. I’m left feeling drained. Like even though the storm inside me is subsiding, I’m still standing in the pouring rain.

He holds my head in his hands, fingers curling around the base of my neck, tugging me forward. My forehead drops to his chest, nose inhaling the smell of tobacco and cologne stuck to his shirt, luring me closer.

My body seeks his, looking for…I don’t know. Comfort? Calm?

The world is still hazy, and all I know is he’s the only thing keeping me from falling to the ground.

“Coraline.” He whispers my name like a secret. “Breathe for me, Hex. Breathe.”

I let my weight fall into him, unsure if he’ll be able to shoulder it but knowing somehow that he will. Shaky breaths rattle from my lips as I take slow inhales through my nose.

“Don’t judge me, Silas.” I squeeze my eyes tightly, feeling the tears leak down my face. “Don’t—”

Don’t tell anyone. Don’t remember this. Don’t think of me as weak.

This is mortifying.

The way my vulnerability has leaked from me like split veins, and there was nothing I could’ve done to stop it. It doesn’t matter that it’s only one person who’s seen in. One person is enough.

All it takes is one person to know how weak you are on the inside, just one, to destroy you. I can’t let that happen, not when I’m so close to getting out of here.

“How can I judge the way you choose to kill your sadness?”

There is a part of me that wants to push him away, run and pretend this never fucking happened. But a smaller piece is so tired, and his arms are so undeniably warm.

“Can you—”

I pause, not sure what to ask or how to ask it, just knowing I don’t want him to leave. Not yet. I need a few more seconds to collapse, and then I’ll leave. I will pick up the scattered pieces of my pride and pretend this was a dream.

But I just need a few more moments.