The Oath We Give (The Hollow Boys Book 5)

coraline

No one talks about how powerful hands are. 

Not the innate strength they can exude but the feeling they can provide when attached to the correct person.

Some hands can simply exist and evoke emotion.

Silas has hands like that.

Which is the most unfortunate thing in the world for me, personally.

This morning while he was making his coffee, which he does every fucking morning, annoyingly punctual with his stupid bean juice, I watched him from Lilac’s room.

Technically, our room since we are sharing because I refuse to share a bed with him. I will bite my tongue and sleep on a bed that sits opposite my seventeen-year-old sister until she goes to college, just so I don’t fall into the one-bed trope. I will prevail.

Anyway, his hands.

It was five in the morning, on the dot, and I had yet to fall asleep. Which isn’t new—I never sleep, and if I do, it’s never straight through the night. My mind wakes me up at all hours just to remind me how scary the dark can be.

I wasn’t sure if Silas had been to bed or if he, like me, has chronic insomnia. Some nights, in the stillness of the night, I hear nothing from his bedroom, and other nights, I hear his door creak open before the basement door unlocks, and he disappears into his cave, not returning until five the next morning to make his coffee.

So this morning, I’m staring at him from my room, a sketchbook in my lap, and all I can focus on is his hands. And back muscles. They ripple and bulge with each movement he makes. Well-defined, evenly spaced as they ripple along his spine into his narrow waist. Golden-brown skin mottled with shadows of sun-dappled light.

Silas Hawthorne has a slutty fucking waist.

But his hands.

Silas’s hands are large, with wide palms and long fingers that move with subtle grace as he makes his coffee. The veins beneath his skin rise up like a miniature mountain range, running across his knuckles and trailing past his wrist to his arms.

They squeeze and hold things with such force but a softness I’ve never seen.

His hands make this feeling knot in my stomach.

Desire to feel them on me, desire because just looking at them makes me remember his touch. Every single second of it.

All morning I’ve spent attempting to clean up my art studio for Light’s charity event today, and all I can think about while hanging decorations is his fucking hands on my body and the night in his office.

When the veil of shadows hid us away and our hands explored dangerous territory. A shiver speeds down my spine, my core tightening like I can feel the cool metal of his gun pressed against my overheated flesh.

It’s been three days.

He’s quietly let me keep my distance, not once bringing it up in casual conversations we are forced to have when we both collide after returning home from work. He usually gets home later than me and always asks the same question when he walks through the door.

“You two eat?”

Lilac is always the one to answer with either a yes before telling him there are leftovers on the stove or a no, let’s order takeout.

It’s painfully fucking domestic.

The two of them have become friends without my consent. Which I hadn’t predicted being a problem before because they are so different. Lilac is loud, constantly in your face with her bubbly personality, and Silas is, well…not that.

Yesterday, I came home and found them in the living room, both sitting on the floor with a chessboard between them. He was trying to teach her while she kept pausing the television to dive into an introspective explanation of each of her favorite scenes from Move.

Silas was quiet, nodding his head while she talked, and not in the way where he was ignoring her, placating her until she was done. No, when she paused, he’d ask questions. And I could physically see the way my sister would light up to answer.

There is nothing she loves more than people listening to her current theories and fixations. It’s her love language.

And my love language is when people treat my sister well.

It’s the equivalent of men holding babies. It does something weird to my insides.

Before bed that night, I had to remind her this was temporary, and getting attached to him would only make it more difficult for her. He wasn’t a permanent thing—Silas Hawthorne was a fleeting moment in our lives. She knew the deal. But Lilac is…well, she’s her, and she doesn’t listen.

I’ll have to be there to pick up the pieces when this ends and she misses his company.

“Shit.”

The banner I’m trying to hang outside the studio once again falls from my grip. I have exactly two hours before people start showing up, and this studio is a disaster. Nothing is ready, and I’m slipping further underwater as the time passes.

“Stupid hot, sexy hands.” I curse beneath my breath, strangling the banner in my hands. “Stupid cologne that smells good, stupid tongue that—”

“Looks like we showed up right on time.”

I nearly fall from the small ladder I’m standing on as I turn around, the banner fluttering to the ground as I look at the people standing beneath me.

Perched on the sidewalk in front of my open studio, Sage peers up at me with black sunglasses shielding her eyes from the summer sun and a grin.

“What are you guys doing here?”

Slowly, I start to make my way down the steps of the ladder until I’m back on the ground, where feet belong. Fuck that ladder, and fuck that banner.

“Silas called, said you might need some help.” Briar is wearing a smirk and what I’m assuming is Alistair’s hoodie from the size of it, the way it falls to mid-thigh before fishnet leggings take over. “Looks like he was right.”

“Ya know,” Lyra hums, rocking back and forth on her heels, “I’m starting to take offense that you don’t just ask us yourself.”

I bite down on the inside of my cheek, unsure if I can tell them the truth.

That I’m so used to not having support, having to do everything alone, that I forgot there were people out there willing to help me now.

“Don’t take it like that,” I say. “I’m like this with everyone. Asking for help isn’t something—”

“You’re good at? No shit,” Sage interrupts, shoving her glasses onto her head. “Don’t worry, you’ll get over it with these two. I did, just takes some time.”

“Are you doing this because I’m married to your boyfriend’s best friend?” I ask, looking at each of their faces, crossing my arms in front of my chest. “If we are just civil by association, that’s fine. Or is it pity? Because of what happened to me? I just, I need to know why you’re trying so hard to be nice to me.”

Briar tilts her head. “Why are you so skeptical?”

I admire the bluntness of her question, even though I’m sure she wanted to say, why are you such a bitch.

It’s not like I want to be this way. Guarded and mistrusting. But it’s hard when person after person lets you down. I want to believe their intentions are good, but I can’t help but feel suspicious.

“A friend of mine from high school, Yasmine?” I offer them, fully aware everyone knows the daughter of two art tycoons, a girl I’d known since kindergarten. We fell in love with art together, and just as quickly, that masterpiece of a friendship fell apart.

“She was there for me when I was rescued. Sent me get-well packages and flowers to my hospital room. Even came over and brought these home-cooked meals, trying to encourage me to get back into painting.” I drag my tongue along my bottom lip, shaking my head as I sigh. “Yeah, well, three months after, there was a news frenzy—people knew about things I’d only told Yasmine. The scars Stephen left on me, the torture and humiliation he’d put me through, all of the secrets I’d told her in confidence were released for public consumption, and they fucking devoured it.”

It broke something in me, knowing strangers all over the world were reading about me being forced to eat out of a dog bowl and relieve myself in a bucket, listening to podcasts and news anchors talk about my mental status.

“How does someone fall in love with a person that dislocates their shoulder?”

“She had to be into some kinky shit before she was kidnapped.”

I’d been sliced open, still alive and able to feel, while people peered into my insides. Poked around with their nosey hands, making assumptions based only on what the media fed them.

I became a story. My humanity was forgotten.

It was the exact reason I’d refused to talk to the media in the first place.

Yasmine was only the first to betray my trust.

“What a fucking cunt,” Briar mutters.

“She still lives in the Springs. We could—”

“You’re not allowed to stab her. If you get arrested, Thatcher is going to blame us, and I am not dealing with his melodrama,” Sage interjects before Lyra can finish her sentence, making her roll her eyes.

“I was going to say we could slash her tires,” Lyra corrects, and although her features give an innocent, shy vibe, there is a look in her eye that tells me she’d kill someone if she had to. “Anyway, we aren’t trying to be friends to make a quick buck from the tabloids.”

“Then why?”

“Dude,” Sage sighs, as if it’s obvious. “You’re our fourth.”

I furrow my brow. “Fourth what?”

“You’ve never watched The Craft? 1996 cult classic?”

I shake my head, which makes her jaw drop, like I’ve just told her I’ve committed a crime.

“Movie night is in the books for this weekend. I can’t in good conscience let you walk further into this world without watching Fairuza Balk dominate,” she orders. “But for now, just know you’re our fourth. If it takes you some time to warm up to that idea, so be it.”

“You’re a part of the Loner Society now,” Lyra says. “The forgotten ones. Those who never fit into the hierarchy of Ponderosa Springs. You can still be alone; we’ll just be alone together.”

Old dogs can’t learn tricks in a day, but there’s a part of me that craves what they’re offering.

A sense of belonging.

A knowing that there are people out there that care and would miss you if you died. Knowing that you aren’t alone and you fit in somewhere, no matter how small the space.

Just like the night of hide-and-seek, that sparkle of hope ignites in my chest.

So, I offer an olive branch.

“Which one of you knows how to hang a banner?”

Several hours later, people fill the inside of my fully decorated studio. Hedi and Light’s other board members had already given short speeches, and bidding on the girls’ paintings had started.

It was a nice turnout, one I think I have to thank Zoe Hawthorne for. She’d walked in with a small army of women and men with deep pockets looking to clear their conscience with some charity.

I didn’t care who they were; all that mattered was the money going into survivors’ pockets. Money some of them desperately need to get the resources they deserve to heal.

“Miss Whittaker!”

I turn my gaze to Faye, who is bulldozing her way through people to reach me. Her tattered shorts and pink hair stand out like a sore thumb among the wealthy.

But she doesn’t care. The smile on her face can’t be dimmed by snotty people. Not today.

“Hi, Faye.” I return her warm grin.

She’s winded when she stops in front of me. “Should I call you Mrs. Hawthorne now that you’re married?”

I choke on my own spit, coughing out my reply. “Coraline is fine.”

“You’ll never believe what just happened. Someone bought my painting! The synthetic cubism you helped me with? It just sold!”

“Congratulations, Faye.”

My smile is genuine. Pure happiness, untouched by darkness. A stream of joy on a stormy night. No one is more deserving of this than her. She has her entire life ahead of her; this joy she is experiencing, this is only a small moment in what I hope is a long life.

Faye takes me by surprise, throwing her arms around me and crushing me to her body.

She’s hugging me.

I know how to hug, but being caught off guard makes me awkward as I tentatively hug her back.

“Thank you,” she breathes, tightening her grip. “Thank you. I wish those words were big enough to express what you’ve done for me.” 

“No thanks needed. This was all you.” I pat her back softly, clearing my throat as I pull back. “Go celebrate with your family, and tell your mother I said hello.”

I watch her disappear into the crowd toward her family, my cheeks burning with embarrassment. Not because she hugged me but because of the blatant physical affection in public. Being seen as soft by all these people, like I care? Makes me a target.

“You’re really good at this.” Sage’s sharp voice floats over my shoulder.

Turning to face her at my side, I smirk. “Standing and looking pretty?”

She arches an eyebrow. “You think you’re pretty?”

My mouth drops open a little before her mouth melts into a warm smile. For a second, I saw a glimpse of the girl I’d seen in high school. The infamous mean girl everyone was so afraid of.

“Just kidding.” She nudges my hip with hers. “The teaching thing—you’re good at it.”

I’m uncomfortable with all this praise today. It’s not a normal thing in my life, never has been, and suddenly, there are kind words everywhere, more than I’ve heard over my entire life, and I don’t know how to handle it.

“So, you two fucked?” she asks bluntly, smirking at me with a knowing glint in her eyes.

I cough, taken aback. “What? No? Why do you ask? Did he say—”

“Rook guessed. Said Silas had postorgasm glow.” She laughs.

“Isn’t this awkward for you? Talking to me about this after he dated your sister?” My shields slam upward, hoping she’ll back off before I slip up and say something that has no business being said out loud.

I deflect and bite when people get too close, but Sage has teeth too.

“Sweetheart, don’t try to mean girl me.” Sage’s eyes flame with the challenge, blue eyes burning as she glances down at her red nails. “I’ll hurt your feelings.”

I doubt anyone, including me, could out-bitch Sweetheart Sage Donahue. Her wrath is notorious.

“I didn’t mean it like that. I just…” I bite the inside of my cheek. “Talking about shit like this makes me uncomfortable. I’m bitchy when I’m uncomfortable. We’re just—we’re friends.”

Friends who may have or may not have fooled around. Friends who are in a fake marriage. It’s a weird friendship, but that’s all it is. That’s all it can ever be.

“Sure you are. That why he just showed up?”

I turn from her smirking face, ready to ask what she means, when I catch a glimpse of Silas’s towering frame stalking through the front door. “Why is he here?”

He’s still wearing his suit from work, the costly material stretching over his shoulders, tapered to fit his waist. He looks expensive, important even, and I’m unsure how people manage to believe he married me.

Which makes me remember we have an event with his company coming up. Meaning I’ll need to figure out a way to convince people I’m someone Silas wants. Someone deserving of his last name.

Fuck me.

“Because he cares.” Sage leans toward me, whispering, “No one cares like Silas Hawthorne. We all have a curse, Coraline. That’s his.”

Sage moves away from me, leaving me to fend for myself as I silently pray he doesn’t find me, but it’s impossible. It’s like he has some kind of radar for me.

I decide to meet him halfway since his eyes have already found mine, and once we are close enough to one another, he’s the first to speak.

“This place looks great.”

“The girls were a big help. Thank you for calling them. You didn’t have to come though. Work must be busy.”

I shift beneath his hard gaze, unwavering from my face like he doesn’t want to look anywhere else but me. The attention from someone so intense is overwhelming.

“This—” He motions to the space around us. “—Light, helping these girls, it’s important to you, yeah?”

I nod quietly, unsure how to answer with words, so afraid to show anyone, especially him, how much I care.

“Then I’ll be here.” He lifts a hand, pushing a piece of hair behind my ear. “If it’s important to you, I can skip a budget meeting for it.”

His fingers trace my cheek, just lightly with the back of his knuckle. The band wrapped around his ring finger catches the light, a physical reminder of the ties that bind us.

This is the first time he’s touched me since the night in his office.

My stomach warms thinking about it, thighs twitching as heat pools in my core.

“Silas.” I clear my throat. “About the other night. I—”

“Well, James, I never thought I’d see the day!” Nails on a chalkboard interrupt my word vomit. “We’ve finally managed to track down the happy couple!”

I visibly flinch when I see Regina and my father parting the crowd, walking in tandem until they are standing before us. She’s wearing a hat with feathers, and she looks very similar to a cockatoo.

Silas, ever aware of my body language, slides an intimate arm around my waist, resting his palm on my hip as he tugs me into his body.

“Regina Whittaker.” She extends a hand to him. “Pleasure to finally meet you.”

Silas takes her hand, shaking it to be polite. One thing I’ve come to really like about this man is how he never forces a smile. I mean, he doesn’t really show any emotion on his face, but I like that he doesn’t change his self around different people.

Silas is Silas.

What you see is what you get.

But with me, it’s different. Like that statement doesn’t apply when we are alone. Sometimes Silas is anything but Silas. He’s something else entirely.

He’s the kind of man who buys an entire collection of your artwork because he doesn’t want anyone to have the secret parts of you that you do give to people willingly. He wants them all to himself.

“James.”

My fake husband’s jaw tightens as he shakes my father’s hand, a knowing glint, a threat lingering in his eyes. Silas knows my dad; James is blithely unaware of just how well.

“Coraline, what is this outfit? Did you not have time to get changed before the event?”

I flick my gaze down at the threadbare denim overalls and white tube top. “It’s a charity event, Regina. No one gives a shit about my clothes.”

“Honey, that mouth, I swear.” She reaches forward, tapping my cheek as she shakes her head. I withhold from biting her finger off as she pulls back. “How are you two getting on with married life? Lilac isn’t too much of a burden, is she? I tried telling Coraline a man like you would want your own space.”

I try to hide the shock on my face. Is she hitting on him? In front of me? In front of my father?

“We like having her. She’s great.”

“Well, I hope the two of them are taking care of you. I tried making sure Coraline knew how to run a household, but she was always so busy with her little drawings.”

Every time she opens her mouth, I’m reminded of why I want to stitch it shut.

“The little drawings that sold for half a million dollars my senior year of high school?” I bite out, sliding a protective hand onto Silas’s stomach, feeling the ripple of his abs beneath his shirt. “We take care of each other, Regina.”

“I’m sure you do.” She nods, eyeing me the way she used to when I’d walk down the stairs as a teenager, judging every pound of weight, every article of clothing.

“Silas.” My father clears his throat. “We’d love to have you for dinner one night. Our chef makes prime rib that pairs flawlessly with a bottle of scotch. Are you a single-malt man?”

“I drink bourbon.” The muscles in his jaw twitch, voice smooth like liquid night. “And I don’t eat meat.”

I try to hide the shock on my face but find it difficult as I look up at him. The bourbon, I knew about. He’s got a cart in his office, stocked with ice nightly, but the meat?

“Since when?” I ask.

Silas looks down, the harshness in his eyes softening, and like it’s no big, like it’s the simplest thing in the world, he says, “Since you told me you don’t like the smell.”

He almost looks offended that I’d think differently. Like it was self-explanatory that if I didn’t like something, he wouldn’t like it either.

I melt a little into those dark brown eyes, my heart tightening in my chest. It’s such a small gesture, but it’s the kindest thing anyone’s ever done for me.

My hand on his stomach slides up to his chest, and even though my parents are right there watching us, I can’t help myself from reaching up on my tippy-toes to place a kiss to the corner of his mouth.

Chaste and quick, a thank-you without words.

“Looks like we won’t have to wait long for grandchildren, J.”

The warmth from my body runs ice-cold. I place my feet back on the ground, narrowing my eyes at her.

“Regina, respectfully, why the fuck do you care?” 

“Excuse me?” she gasps, eyes wide.

I hadn’t planned to say anything, but since I’ve already started, there is no stopping it.

“Never once, not once in my life, have you given a shit. And now, what? Because I marry someone with money, you care? I tried for years to earn your love, like it was something that needed to be worked for instead of given freely.” I shake my head at her audacity, a spiteful smile on my face. “I spent my childhood bending over fucking backward to be what you wanted, and it was never enough for you. So, I’ll ask again, why the fuck do you care?”

“You can’t speak to me like that. I raised you the best I could, but you’ve always been so…troubled. From the start!” Regina sputters like a fish out of water. “James, are you just going to let her talk to me like that?”

“Coraline—”

“I suggest,” Silas interrupts, speaking directly to my father, “you choose those next words carefully, James.” 

My father has always been an unstoppable force, but Silas is an immovable object. They’re titans clashing, and if I had to bet, my money would be on my husband. Fake or not. Silas is a protector by nature; when you’re in his inner circle, no one can touch you.

“You two can buy something or see yourself out,” I snip, finished with this conversation, tired of speaking to them, pretending that they actually give a shit.

This event isn’t about them, and that’s what I’m doing, making it about my shitty parents. I don’t want to ruin this opportunity for these girls, so I step from Silas’s hold and go outside for some fresh air.

And just like that night at the art gala, Silas follows, meeting me in the daylight. The sun beams down on the two of us as he slides his hands into his pockets. I look at him, really look at him for a second.

Regardless of how badly I try to deny it, I like him.

Much more than I ever wanted to. He just makes it so fucking difficult not to. Everything he does, everything he says, it just makes me want to give in.

“What do you need?” Silas asks.

“Huh?”

“What do you need?” he asks again. “You frown when you’re upset. Tell me how to fix it.” 

This is exactly what I’m talking about. This observant person who has seen right through me from that very first phone call. No one has ever cared about me the way he does. Paid attention to the way I move and how I feel the way he has.

My entire life, I have been made to believe I am unlovable. That I am a cursed, hard-to-love creature undeserving of kindness, and Silas just…he makes it look so easy.

“I tell you what I need to feel better, and you just fix it? A snap of your fingers? What if I said stabbing Regina with a fork would make me feel better, Hawthorne.”

He steps closer to me, rubbing his thumb across the lines on my forehead.

“You’re in control of a monster, Hex. Whatever you need, it’s already yours.”

The scary part isn’t that he views himself as a monster.

It’s that I believe him.