The Oath We Give (The Hollow Boys Book 5)

coraline

I heard once you don’t decide you’re a good parent; your child decides if you’re a good parent.

I haven’t met Caleb, but if Silas and Levi are any indication, Zoe and Scott Hawthorne are great parents. I’d never been privy to or been a part of a warm family dynamic. My parents did not host family game nights or debrief about what I learned in school.

They were quick to hand me over to caretakers and only pluck me from their golden shelves when I was needed to make their appearance seem more well-rounded.

I was a pawn, a spare token for an image of a happy family.

These people sitting at this table understand and move with one another like it’s the easiest thing in the world.

I’ve never known a home that didn’t feel like scattered eggshells beneath my feet, waiting to cut me open for walking too harshly.

“I’ve been looking for a new hobby for months. These art classes sound perfect. When do you host them?” Zoe grins, taking another sip of her red wine.

“It’s mainly for Halo survivors, but next Thursday, I’m letting Light host an event where some of the girls I teach will be able to sell their work. If you’d like to come so they can meet you before you join a class?” I return the smile before plucking a garlic green bean from my plate.

“Count me in!” she squeals, clapping her hands together. “Look at that, honey, new hobby for me.”

What does it say about me that I was expecting her to bail once she found out who I taught? When she realized it wasn’t a gossip pool filled with the women of high society, but instead a therapy for girls who’d seen the cruelness of life.

I suppose I’d gotten so used to backhanded retorts and pity stares I didn’t know what a genuine, kind soul looked like.

This entire dinner had shifted my expectations. I thought my job was to hang off Silas’s arm and look pretty. I’d been nervous they’d view me as closed off with my outfit, too hard around the edges, expecting me to be in a dress instead. Speak when spoken to, eat with the correct fork, and never seem anything less than perfect.

But they hadn’t wanted any of that from me.

Despite their intentional concerns, all they wanted was to know me. To know the person their oldest son had chosen to spend his life with. It made my chest burn—I hadn’t expected to feel so guilty for lying to them, but they were so kind, so interested in who I was with genuine intentions, I couldn’t help but hate myself a little for fooling them.

“God help me, I’m still paying for the last hobby,” Scott mutters, elbowing Silas, who is sitting next to him. “Remember when she picked up knitting?”

“I had to wear knitted sweaters to school every single day for six months,” Levi speaks up. “Do you know how itchy that shit was?”

“Language, Levi Vincent!”

“Sorry, Mom,” he mumbles, shoving a piece of steak into his mouth and smiling at her with a boyish grin that tells me he’s used it to get out of plenty of trouble in his lifetime.

I smile, hiding behind my wineglass and watching them exist with one another. Although Silas doesn’t talk much, I can see how comfortable he is with them here. How relaxed his shoulders and facial features appear. A light in his eyes that brightens his face.

Silas’s hand creeps across the table. Without notice of the others, he starts playing with the tips of my hand, rubbing circles around my nails, tracing the pads of my fingers. So casual, like he’s done it a million times before.

“So you like what you do, Coraline?” Scott asks me, my attention zeroing in on him.

Maybe it’s because I don’t know him well or have only ever seen him in passing, but for someone battling cancer, he looks perfectly healthy. I suspect that’s where Silas gets his stone-wall facade from.

The weight of the world could rest on their shoulders, but they’d never let anyone else see it.

“I do.” I nod. “I’d like to still get my degree in art history eventually, but I enjoy teaching. Selling my paintings is just for rent.”

“Silas is going to have to give up one of these rooms for you to work. I’m sure we could get a contractor in here to expand,” Zoe notes, looking around as if she can see where she’d place an extra room for me to paint.

“Oh, that’s not necessary—”

“Already done,” Silas interrupts, picking up my finger and sliding his thumb up and down before spinning my ring around. “I wanted to wait till Coraline got settled before turning the place into a construction zone.”

I look over at him, trying to hide my shock as our eyes meet. The entire day, he’s been…different. His hands never leave me; in one way or another, he’s touching me. It’s a convincing show he’s putting on, much better than me, who just warmed up to his hands on my body.

It’s fake, I know that. But sometimes, when his fingers graze my body or he pulls me into his chest, it feels a little too real.

“That’s my boy.” Scott slaps Silas on the back, grinning. “He’s treating you well, right? You can tell me. He’s not too old for me to ground.”

“He’s a little grouchy before he has his coffee, but nothing I can’t handle.”

“Well, if you need me to keep him in line, you call me for help.”

“Mr. Hawthorne, respectfully”—I lift my eyebrows at him playfully—“I’m a red belt in tae kwon do. I think it’ll be him trying to call you for help.”

Laughter ricochets around the room. Such a common sound in day-to-day living but my ears had been deprived of for such a long time. It feels…nice.

Noticing that everyone is finishing up with their meals, I press my hands into the table, pushing out my chair and excusing myself to the kitchen to grab the dessert in the fridge that Zoe had brought with her.

I can still hear the echoes of their giggles and conversation as I unwrap the pie and search Silas’s kitchen for small plates in several cabinets before finally finding the right one.

Hands curl around my waist, fingers pressing into my stomach as I set the plates on the counter. I turn my head toward my shoulder, biting back a smile.

“You touch me a lot,” I say when he squeezes me lightly. The heat from his hands feels like fire on my cold skin. Warmth pours over me, making me clench my thighs.

“You’re very touchable, Hex.”

His voice tickles my skin, making me shiver in his hold, but he only holds me tighter, dipping his head into the space between my neck and shoulder, inhaling the smell of me.

“I don’t think your parents are spying on us in the kitchen.” I place my hands on the counter, steadying myself. It’s hard to focus, to play pretend when he feels this good. Strong and steady, every muscle of his chest and abdomen pressed into my back. “We can stop pretending now.”

I gasp when he shoves me forward, pressing his lower half into my ass, forcing me to feel his hard cock against me. My skin aches for more, need coursing through my veins. My body melts and unwinds for him.

There is no explanation for why he’s the only person to touch me sexually and it doesn’t send me spiraling.

There isn’t a posttraumatic stress disorder handbook—I mean, I’m sure someone has written one, but navigating it is different for everyone. No one talks about how one minute, you’re making out with a guy in a club bathroom, and the next, you’re underneath your rapist. That one smell can put you on the floor of your kitchen with your head tucked between your knees, gasping for air.

I’d gone from a sex-positive, young college student to someone who didn’t believe in desire and sex drive anymore.

But Silas, it’s like he knows how to keep me rooted in the present. With two hands, he holds me to the earth, refuses to let go, and makes me feel everything.

It’s terrifying.

“This isn’t for them. This is for me,” he murmurs against my skin, lips dropping featherlight kisses.

“I—” A whimper steals my words as he pins my body to the counter, my core throbbing as he grinds into me from behind.

There is a throbbing desire to feel him. Skin on skin. No clothes or barriers. Just him.

“When they leave, are you going to let me christen this place?” he grits out as I tilt my head back into his chest, giving him more access to me. “Bend you right over this counter, watch you spread your legs, and stuff you with my cock until you’re dripping on my kitchen floor.”

My eyes shut as I fall into the feeling of his hands pressing into my stomach, forcing our bodies together. He doesn’t let me doubt, refuses to let me think too long, knowing if I did, I’d pull away, force distance between us to protect the both of us from the wrath of a broken connection.

Falling is fun until you hit the ground.

When one of you is left with brittle bones and the other is dead.

A throat clears from behind us, and my face burns. I’m positive I’m the color of a fire hydrant. I slip to the side, away from Silas’s hold, seeing his parents snickering from the entryway.

“Oh my God,” I mutter at the same time Silas says, “Can we help you?” His jaw is taut, the muscle jumping in his cheek.

“Oh, don’t be so uptight. Your father and I were young once.” Zoe wraps her arm around Scott’s, pulling him into her side. “We didn’t mean to interrupt you lovebirds, but we wanted to run something by you before we headed out. Your father has an early morning.”

Code for “he has chemotherapy,” I’m sure.

“Your father and I were talking.” She glances at her husband, biting the inside of her cheek. “We know you’re legally married, and we are so happy for you two. I just would like to see my oldest baby walk down the aisle. With everything going on, I—”

She pauses, emotion heavy in her throat as she places a hand over her mouth.

“I’d like to die knowing I got to see at least one of my sons get married,” Scott says for her, shoulders square as he so casually speaks about dying like it’s something he’s already prepared himself for. Despite the chemo, he isn’t praying for a miracle; he’s just submitted to his fate. I’m not sure what is more painful, holding out for hope or accepting death so soon.

“Dad.” Silas clears his throat. “Coraline and I—”

“We’d love that.”

The words come from a place of sadness, of guilt. The last thing I need or want right now is to have a wedding, but these people, this family, they deserve something good.

His mother and father have no clue why we did this. All they know is their son appears to be happy. I don’t want to take that away from them, not yet.

“Really?” Zoe’s eyes light up. “Oh my gosh, this is fantastic! I thought I was going to have to pull out the waterworks.”

“The cancer card comes in handy,” Scott jokes lightly, a matching smile on his face.

I step into Silas, curling an arm around his waist. I know this wasn’t something we’d planned or talked about, but I can’t refuse his parents. Not like this. Not when I know I’m simply taking advantage of their kindness, spinning a pretty web of lies while their son and I work to corrupt the system.

“I don’t want to overwhelm you,” Zoe says, walking further into the kitchen toward me before she runs her palm up and down my arm, soothing, comforting, like a mother would. “I was blessed with three rambunctious boys, but I’ve secretly been waiting on a daughter. I would love more than anything to plan this wedding for you two, with your guidance, of course. We could get to know each other more because I’d really love to do that with you, Coraline.”

It hurt to know I’d never had the chance to feel accepted like this by my own mother, experienced the unconditional love between a child and parent.

I think it hurts more knowing I’m lying to her.

“Of course, Zoe,” I say.

“Fantastic! Let’s get lunch next week to go over some details?”

I nod, agreeing just before she envelops me in a hug. The smell of vanilla hits my nose, and I realize that’s the sweet note in Silas’s scent. Vanilla, like his mother, carrying her love with him wherever he goes.

When she pulls away from me, I take a breath. Scott smiles at his wife fondly, like she holds the sun. Silas slides a protective arm around my waist, and Levi joins, asking about the pie.

For a brief moment, I allow myself to imagine what it would be like if this were my family. Who would I have become if the hands meant to raise me had nurtured my spirit instead of made me hate it? If kind words were given freely and not with an acidic aftertaste?

My phone buzzes in my pocket, and when I pull it out, my eyebrows furrow together.

“Who is it?” Silas asks next to me, as if he noticed my shoulders tense.

“My landlord.” I feel a chill run along my spine.

“Hello?” I ask hesitantly, pressing the phone to my ear as I step away from the group.

“Miss Whittaker, it’s Ian from your apartment building,” he starts. “I’m sorry to call you so randomly, but security on the premises just informed us that your apartment has been broken into.”

My heart stops, and time stills.

Panic’s razor-sharp claws sink into my chest and squeeze tightly. I remind myself that Lilac is with Regina today at the hair salon, that she is safe, but it doesn’t stop the onslaught of fear.

I listen to Ian tell me the police are already there, but his voice is starting to drown out. Nothing is safe anymore—not even the four walls of my home that were meant to be a sanctuary from all the chaos.

Reality returns with her swift, cold hands, reminding me that this is not my family. That I am not an actual wife, and there is a man out there who refuses to let me go.

Nothing good is ever real. Not for me.

Not forever.