Page 46 of The Oath We Give

When I reach into my wallet to grab my card, the waitress appears behind the counter.

“Your meal was taken care of.” She grins, like this is a good thing. A nice thing.

“That’s so nice—”

“By who?” I interrupt my sister, hand tightening around the cash in my hand.

Not expecting my reaction, the server’s eyebrows pull together in confusion as she silently points toward where Silas sits with his friends, unaware of our conversation.

Irritation heats my veins.

I pull out a twenty-dollar bill and hand it to her for a tip before turning on the heel of my foot.

“Cora, where are you going?”

My sweatpants slip low on my hips as I stalk toward their booth, not bothering to fix them when I make it to the edge of the table. My teeth feel like they are going to break if I grind them together any harder.

Four sets of eyes land on me.

Thud.

My palm slams onto the red surface, money sitting beneath it. I ignore the rest of them, meeting a pair of brown eyes that are much darker than my own, hiding secrets and unknown intentions.

“Since this wasn’t clear enough the other night, let me be frank,” I mutter, hair falling over my shoulder as I push the money toward him.

I reach into my bag, pulling out several more twenties and letting them fall to the table.

“I can’t be bought, and this makes us even,” I say. “Dinner’s on me tonight, boys.”

Book made for [email protected]

ELEVEN

DADDY’S MONEY

SILAS

My ears ringas another bullet pierces the target in front of me.

It’s not the power of the weapon that lured me in or the damage of the bullet that keeps me married to it.

It’s the smell.

A plume of smoke spirals up from the barrel, carrying a scent of controlled chaos. It’s a sharp tang, burnt chemicals mingling with the metallic undertone of heated gunpowder. As it fades, it leaves behind a fleeting trace of burnt carbon, an earthiness, the raw power of the weapon.

The scent is proof of all the beauty found in violence.

My phone vibrates on the wooden table in front of me. A text from Rook illuminates the screen, letting me know he’s here. I clear the empty rounds from in front of me and slam another mag into the 9mm black Canik, then slip it beneath the waistband of my jeans at my hip.

I start to clear the table, dismantling the sniper rifles I’d shot earlier in the day, sliding everything into the black duffle bag. I hold the fifty-caliber Desert Eagle in my hands for a moment. A gift from Rosemary years ago that I only use for target practice anymore. It’s impractical for day-to-day use.

The two sentences engraved on the sides of the metal are what I’ve kept with me. Every gun I own, even the one at my hip, read the same thing.

Non timebo malaon the left.

Vallis tua umbraon the right.

The same words are tattooed along the outside of my left and right hand from wrist to knuckle. Rosie had started the tradition by engraving it on the present, knowing how much the words meant, and I’d continued it.