The Oath We Give (The Hollow Boys Book 5)

silas

My ears ring as 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 mala on the left. 

Vallis tua umbra on 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. 

I place the gun inside the bag, zipping it up and throwing it over my shoulder, evading the burning sun beyond the pines. 

When I make it through the back door of my parents’ home, I know I won’t be able to leave quickly because Rook’s voice is echoing from the kitchen. Great, fucking fantastic. It’ll be an hour before we’re out of the door. 

“It’ll take two minutes. Just let me give you a trim.” 

When I enter, my mother is tugging at the strands of Rook’s hair, standing on her tippy-toes, inspecting the length down to his scalp like he’s a child and she’s checking for head lice. 

“I’m growing it out, Ma,” he mutters, grinning, seconds from probably telling her yes. He’s always had a problem telling her no.

“This was much easier when you were little and couldn’t say no.” 

“Is that before or after you gave him a bowl cut?” My voice announces my presence as I watch them from the entryway. 

“It was not a bowl cut! It was cute.” She swats her hand in my direction, waving me off and letting Rook go from her motherly inspection. “What trouble are you two getting into tonight?”

Rook smirks, rubbing his hands together, and I answer before he has a chance to shove his foot into his mouth and give my mom a heart attack. 

“Poker.” I clear my throat. “With some friends.” 

Her warm, hazel eyes crinkle gently at the corners, and she shakes her head a little. I don’t know if she suspects I’m lying or not. She’d probably tell people she knows when I am, but I’ve been lying to her most of my life, and she’s never noticed, or maybe that’s because she didn’t have a reason to.

Zoe Hawthorne glows with a soft touch of time and experience, fading into her later years with grace. Empathy pours from every smile. Everything about her is motherly, and I’ve been lucky to have her.

All the guys are, especially Rook.

He’s her favorite by far.

The kitchen light shines on her brown hair, gentle streaks of silver at her roots that she refuses to dye. She likes the gray, says it makes her look regal. 

“While you’re out, Rook, maybe you can convince my son to bring his fiancée around sometime. Apparently, we aren’t good enough to have an introduction.” Her voice is playful, letting me know she’s joking, but deep down, I know this entire situation has upset her.

“Soon, Mom. I promise.”

As soon as I choose a wife.

This week’s family dinner was spent grilling me. Wedding plans, who my soon-to-be wife was, why I hadn’t told them about it. Thankfully, by some act of God, Daniel hadn’t mentioned it to my father at work just yet, but it’s only a matter of time before this blows up in my face. 

My plan as of now is simple. 

I’m going to tell them the truth about Coraline. She’d been in the wrong place at the wrong time, unaware of my upcoming nuptials, and tried to be a good friend by helping scare away a nosey colleague. 

Which, if it goes well, should buy me just enough time to go through a list of eligible, decent women willing to be in an arranged marriage for at least two years. On paper, that sounds impossible. In Ponderosa Springs? 

It’ll be easy. 

Most of the daughters and sisters who remain here—what, to get ahead?—want to be the best, and the way you do that around here? Money. I just so happen to have a lot of it.

However, there is one woman in particular, one that seems to hate the idea of being tied to my money. Which is funny, considering she’s the only one I want.

Out of pure convenience. She understands what’s at stake, knows about Stephen. We have a mutual enemy, and that would make us great partners.

“Well, be safe tonight. Dad’s going to be upset he missed you, but I don’t want to wake him.” She pulls Rook into a tight hug that he returns, kissing him on the cheek softly. “Thank you for my flowers, sweet boy. Take care of my baby.” 

“Always, Ma,” Rook mutters, letting her squeeze a little tighter than normal before pulling away. 

When she walks toward me to give me the same love, I look down at her. 

“I’m an adult, you know?” 

“And? You’ll always be my baby. Give me a hug before you leave.” 

I swoop down, curling my arms around her waist, bending so that she can wrap her arms around my neck. She’s always smelled like vanilla since I was a kid. Now, no matter where I am, vanilla reminds me of home. 

“Next time you walk into this house, you better have that girl on your arm, or I’m going to take it personally.”

I press my lips to the side of her head. “Yes, ma’am.” 

I hate this. I’ve always hated this.

The feeling in my stomach that leads to silence. How shitty I feel on the inside, knowing I’m lying to my family. Knowing it’s all I fucking do.

My mental health, this engagement, Stephen.

I don’t think any of them actually know me.

Not really, not the real me.

Coming clean sounds easy, but not when everyone has known you to be a specific thing since you were young. Not when telling the truth would make them worry.

With our goodbyes said, Rook and I clear the distance between the kitchen and the front door. The moment our feet hit my front porch, I hear the flicking of a lighter, followed by the smell of cigarette smoke. 

“Scale of one to ten. What’s the likelihood of Easton trying to kill me tonight?” 

“An eleven.”

Rook had decided for the group that knocking wasn’t needed. So the three of us follow him through the surprisingly empty halls of Sinclair Manor. We sometimes stumble upon luck in our debauchery. 

It’s rumored that every Thursday night, Easton Sinclair gathers with his friends for poker, following close behind in his father’s footsteps by becoming the head of his family’s home. 

How they were able to afford the same lifestyle after Stephen went to prison is something I want to know. You don’t have your assets seized and then continue to live in luxury. 

The gun on my hip presses into my side, anger that isn’t mine making my fists tighten. It wouldn’t surprise me if Easton had known about the girl held hostage in his childhood home. The entire time, he let her rot beneath his wealth out of fear of his father’s power. 

He’d been a coward our entire fucking lives; it wouldn’t have surprised me. 

“How do you know where you’re going?” Alistair asks from over my shoulder while I keep an eye out for housekeepers or Lena Sinclair, who still wears her wedding ring and lives on the grounds. 

“I’ve been here before,” Rook says loudly, uncaring if anyone hears him. I think he wants to be caught, just to add a little more chaos to our plan. “Fucked Sage inside the pool hall once. Something like that is hard to forget.” 

Thatcher scoffs from the back, holding his tongue from saying something snarky, I’m sure. 

The hatred that has ebbed and flowed between us and the only son of Stephen Sinclair goes far beyond Rook stealing his girlfriend years ago. 

No, our last names have clashed since before our births. 

Our rivalry is built into the foundation of Ponderosa Springs, hatred-filled blood scattered beneath the soil. The Halo was once started as revenge, the binding together of Sinclair men who kidnapped, beat, raped the daughters and sisters of Ponderosa Springs’ founding families. 

Caldwell. 

Van Doren. 

Pierson. 

Hawthorne. 

The women of our legacy were a stepping-stone to what became the larger vile organization Stephen orchestrated. Where he kidnapped young, innocent girls and made a profit by selling them to God knows who. 

We were destined to hate one another, and while I’d like to think I’m above legacy feuds, it’s hard not to continue it when Easton Sinclair is a fucking cunt and has been since I’ve known him. 

As we reach the end of the hallway, Rook takes a left, stopping in front of a set of heavy mahogany double doors. Music leaks from behind them, and instead of taking a second to rehash our plan, he presses two tattooed hands on them and shoves. 

Full stop, no caution at all times. 

His hand is forever on the throttle, and it’ll die there. 

“Fucking impatient,” Alistair grumbles as he pushes them open. 

“Long time no see, Sinclair,” Rook shouts, holding his arms out wide to the filled room. “Got space to deal us in?” 

The four of us filter into the poker room clouded with the fog of cigars. Beyond the veil of smoke, four of Easton’s friends are slumped in their chairs, barely paying attention to their hands, strung out on either drugs or alcohol or consumed with the women that are floating around the room. 

Easton doesn’t look much better. Probably the worst I’ve ever seen him in the years I’ve known him. 

His face is buried in the neck of some girl in a skimpy red dress, her body, facing away from us, perched on top of the green felt table, poker chips scattered across it. The strings of her dress hang loose on her arms as he glares over her shoulder in our direction. 

“Get the fuck out of my house,” he demands, swatting his company on the hip, prompting her to slide from the table and toward another group of women. 

The left side of his face has healed decently. Thanks to several plastic surgeries, those burn scars are white, running beneath his eye socket all the way to his chin. Striped skin, wearing a memory of Rook’s hand pressing his face into the side of his motorcycle exhaust. 

“Say please,” Rook taunts, smirking. 

Taunting him is his favorite game. 

Easton’s jaw is taut, twitching with anger at our intrusion, but that’s the only thing familiar about him. He swings his hand, grabbing the neck of a vodka bottle. His blond hair is tousled, eyes red-rimmed, pale skin sickly. 

It seems time hasn’t been kind to him either. 

“Suck my dick, Van Doren.” He seethes, pressing the tip of the bottle to his lips and guzzling down a mouthful of liquid before wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Get out, or the police can make you. Your choice.” 

“You’re not my type, man.” Rook shoves his hands deeper into his pockets, rocking back and forth on his heels. “I’ve got a real hard-on for redheads. Maybe try some hair dye and we can circle back to this?” 

I don’t need to see to know that he’s wearing a shit-eating grin on his face, knowing Easton is plummeting to a pile of ashes while he gets the girl. He’s deserving of everything he’s living now for what he put her through. 

Our last names may have given birth to our hatred. But Sage Donahue? She’s the gasoline for these two. 

Easton laughs maniacally, tossing his head back. 

My eyebrows twitch together as I glance to Alistair, who is watching him quietly.

“Turning to booze after daddy goes to prison? What a cliché,” Rook mutters.

This sobers him up, the sound of glass shattering as he slams the bottle onto the table. His steps forward are more coordinated than I expected. He walks until he’s in Rook’s face. My friend just grins as the man who represents all of his girlfriend’s pain lifts a fist. 

“Touch him.” The click of the safety on my gun rings in the air, the end of the barrel tapping Easton on his temple. “Make this easy for me.” 

I watch him tense. Everyone is a tough guy until there is a gun involved. 

Silence echoes in the room. Everyone has gone perfectly still. 

“Clear the fucking room,” Alistair grunts toward the innocent bystanders still inside. 

I listen to the shuffle of feet and hushed whispers as they scurry outside of the room while I hold the gun to Easton’s skull, watching his glazed eyes as he keeps staring at Rook. 

Obviously, Easton’s involvement in the Halo wasn’t enough to get him arrested with his father and the others involved, but we know he’s next in line to take over. 

Which means whatever information he has, we want. 

“You gonna sic your dogs on me? Should I expect Alistair to start beating whatever bullshit you want out of me?” Easton snarks, turning his head to look over at me. 

My finger rubs the trigger. Just a little pressure and he’s dead. 

“I’m too old for games with you,” Alistair answers, grabbing his shoulder and shoving him into an empty chair. “You’re going to make this easy. We ask a question, and you answer.” 

I press the butt of the gun to his forehead, applying pressure for emphasis.

“Where is he?” Thatcher speaks for the first time since we got here. 

“Be more specific.” He smirks. “He who?” 

Alistair grabs a fistful of his hair, jerking his head back so he’s looking up at him, sickly, sweaty skin highlighted by the overhead lights. 

“I said I’m too old, not that I won’t. Being a smart-ass is only gonna make it worse. Where is your father?” 

Easton grins as he flicks his tongue across his dry bottom lip. “This is fucking priceless.” 

I swing my arm toward the wall, pressing the trigger, feeling the slam of the hammer on the metal thrum through my arm as a bullet lodges itself into the wall. Splinters of wood filter through the air. 

“It’s going to be bloody if you don’t talk.” 

His jaw twitches, teeth grinding together as he moves his eyes to me. 

“He hasn’t contacted me. I found out he was out from the news like everyone else. The last time we spoke? He was being arrested.” 

“Bull-fucking-shit. His only son has heard nothing from him in two years? Try again, Easton.” 

“I wanted out.” He shakes his head. “When I knew Sage wasn’t going to leave you, I told him I wanted out.” 

“Watch your fucking mouth—” 

“How much you hate me will never,” Easton interrupts Rook, jerking his head from Alistair’s grip, “never take away what she means to me, Van Doren. Get the fuck over it, or kill me.” 

I don’t know all about what happened between the three of them. Not the trauma Sage experienced at the hands of Easton, a boy she’d known her entire life. What I do know? She was a pawn in a business she never wanted a part of. Their young relationship quickly became an exchange she didn’t consent to. A way for her father to pay off his debts, and she was the cash. 

Despite all of that, one thing I know for certain? Easton Sinclair doesn’t love Sage. 

Maybe in his mind with his skewed view of love, it’s real to him. Or maybe it’s the power he had over her and her life that he craves. 

But he doesn’t love her. Not the way Rook does. 

There is a stark difference between the two. 

One would risk the girl for power. The other would give it all up for her. 

Rook is my best friend, but if it meant killing me or saving Sage? 

I’d be dead.

“You’re telling us you didn’t take the video we were sent?” I ask, trying to redirect the conversation back to the matter at hand. They’ll spend hours arguing, and it’ll lead nowhere. 

He sighs, running his palm across his mouth. “Yeah, I took the video of you getting rid of Godfrey’s body. Followed you from town to Lyra’s cabin. I recorded it, but I don’t have it anymore. Once I sent it to Stephen, I deleted it.” 

Alistair’s fist slices through the air, landing a solid punch to Easton’s jaw, making his head snap to the side. The impact of skin on skin echoes in the room, but it’s only Easton’s laugh that follows. 

“You four are so fucking dense.” He spits blood onto the ground, a chuckle vibrating his chest. “Heads shoved so far up each other’s asses you can’t even begin to understand how much I want Stephen dead. Him being out doesn’t just affect you; it fucks my life too.” 

“Save your daddy issues for a therapist,” Rook says harshly, arms crossed in front of his chest. “We aren’t on the same team here.” 

“I don’t owe any of you an explanation for my involvement. Don’t sit there and act like you know me.” 

“This is all very convenient for you,” Thatcher presses, adjusting the lapels on his jacket. “You know nothing. You’re in the dark. You are just an innocent bystander.” 

“I told you I don’t know where he is.” 

“Where is the money coming from, then?” 

Sweat pools around Easton’s collar as he closes his mouth, rolling his lips together. The air around him has a tang to it, resentfulness and hostility, like a dog snarling before attacking, hackles raised.

“I’m smarter than you, Sinclair. It’s not very hard to do the math. You and your mother haven’t so much as blinked since he was arrested. On paper? You both should’ve lost everything. Yet—” Thatcher quirks an eyebrow, spreading his arms wide. “—here you are, living amongst the wealthy as if nothing has happened.” 

I shift the gun as he moves, leaning back into the chair and rubbing his swollen jaw before crossing his arms in front of his chest.

“Your dad is an asshole, but Wayne Caldwell takes care of his mistress.” He flicks his eyes at Alistair, digging a familiar knife into his chest. “Paying for my mother’s silence has a nice price tag.” 

The leveling of his words leaves us speechless. My grip tightens on the gun, my eyebrows creasing. I want to say I’m surprised, but Alistair’s father has been sleeping around with Leah Sinclair for years.

There is weight in his words, a weight I wish didn’t exist.

“Don’t believe me?” He arches an eyebrow. “Statements are in my office. Code to the safe is 6598.” 

“My father can put his money and dick in whatever trash he wants,” Alistair grunts. “I want insurance.” 

“Call fucking State Farm, Caldwell.” 

I press the cold metal of the gun hard against his temple, and I feel him flinch. I lean in closer, my breath on his cheek, the smell of alcohol and days of sweat stuck to his skin.

“Proof, Sinclair. Proof you’re not helping your father.”

I watch his Adam’s apple contract; the fear of a bullet hangs heavy in the air, pressing against his skin like a physical weight that no amount of alcohol can free him from.

“If I help you—” His breath comes out shaky. “—then I want something out of it.” 

I can feel the corner of my mouth begin to twitch, forming a rare expression: a smirk. I raise my eyebrows, sneering down at him with contempt.

“How about you give me your fucking IP address and I don’t splatter your fucking brains on the wall?”