Page 45 of The Oath We Give

In step behind him, fucking with his leather jacket until Alistair shrugs him off, Rook Van Doren. He radiates rebellion with a single match resting between his teeth, paired with a boyish grin. The whites of his eyes are stained red from weed. I’m sure his munchies are the reason they’re here this late. I wonder when he’ll quit, before or after he follows the men of his family by becoming a judge.

“As if Thatcher Pierson would let anyone touch him,” I say making her giggle into her milkshake.

Thatcher doesn’t walk; he glides, floating on his massive ego. His history is everyone’s favorite scary story, being not only a founding family legacy but the son of Ponderosa Springs’ one and only serial killer. He wears fear on his pale complexion almost as well his freshly pressed suit.

Lilac’s laugh grabs the attention of the last member of their group. As if I needed another encounter with Silas Hawthorne. The quiet mystery that clings to his person like a shadow casts across our table as he slides into the booth beside Rook.

I’m human, with eyes, and I don’t fault myself for checking him out.

He looks too big to even fit in the booth, biceps flexing as he slings an arm across the back of the booth. Muscles threaten to tear the threads of his fitted gray graphic tee to pieces.

Tattoos from the tips of his long fingers to his throat adorn his light brown skin. Several designs that, as an artist, I’m too far away to really appreciate. His hair, which is normally shaved close to his skull, is covered with a black beanie.

Quiet, calm, steadfast, with this unshakeable confidence. His presence is a demand without words, an order with no voice. He’s an unstoppable force, unchanged since high school.

I knew Silas before any of this—the call, Vervain, the art gala. Everyone did. What he looked like, his reputation, the story Ponderosa Springs built for him. The oldest son of the Hawthorne family with the stony gaze, intimidating demeanor, and diagnosed schizophrenic.

My eyes trace his face.

Artists who paint faces or sculpt bodies are always looking for the perfect balance of symmetry. Portions of excellence, without flaw. Silas, without knowing, is probably the world’s greatest reference for this exact dilemma.

It’s striking how balanced it all is. Sharp, well-defined cheekbones, creating subtle shadows that play across his face, accentuating his strong jawline that is currently taut. A rugged, hardened beauty that makes it impossible not to notice him in a room.

“The Schizo” people called him was both unfair and unoriginal. But if this town needs anything, it’s labels. I think even back then, I related to being given a name that never fit my narrative.

We’d spent years in the same schools, our entire childhood basically, and I can count on one hand the number of times I’d passed him in the halls or ran into him. We ran in different circles, and even at a young age, once you find a group of people? You stick there, never daring to break out of it.

The universe is making up for lost time, it would seem, throwing us back into each other’s space once again.

“Ohh…” Lilac hums, a knowing grin on her face. “Which one are you eye fucking?”

I snap my gaze to hear, furrowing my eyebrows. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

“You haven’t stopped staring at the booth since they sat down, so spill. Which one are you into?”

I have to physically keep my eyes on hers so that they don’t stray back to Silas. Biting the inside of my cheek, I shake my head.

“Finish your food so we can get home. You have to be up in four hours.”

Lilac huffs but listens, quietly devouring her cheeseburger with one hand while absent-mindedly scrolling through her phone with the other. I try to ignore the tension from my booth to his.

Which is proving difficult, considering our last conversation revolved around me being his fake wife after trying to do him a simple favor of playing girlfriend. That’s what I get for trying to be nice. I get screwed and end up getting in much deeper than I planned.

I felt like shit leaving him to deal with the aftermath of that. Hopefully he can come up with a lie about me cheating or leaving him, something believable. I don’t care what he says about me, just as long as I’m not tethered to him romantically. Even if it’s fake.

I’m the last thing he needs to add to his plate.

I glance toward him for a quick second, wondering what’s going through his mind. How he’s able to handle everything. I mean, his father is dying, and he’s out with his friends, the picture of unbothered.

Stop, I tell myself abruptly.Do not get involved. Do not think about what Silas is thinking about or how he is. Stay far away.

I’m sure he’ll be able to find someone nice. Pretty, more suited for what he’s looking for. It won’t be hard—he’s handsome and has more money than God. That’s best for the both of us. Better for him, if I’m honest. Men can’t get close to me and make it out.

Dead men tell no tales.

Lilac lets out a loud burp, rubbing her hands together. “Ready to go?”

I nod, grabbing my purse and pulling it up on my shoulder as I slide out of the booth and keep my head forward. I refuse to look in their direction as I walk toward the cashier at the front.