Page 7 of Oathbreaker

My chest grows tight at the thought of the intimacy we just shared. It’s not even about the sex, although that was…everything.

It’s deeper than that.

She is everything.

I never expected her love. I never expected to feel this way about anyone. But I do. Besides Leo, she’s the only person I’ve been able to share the entirety of my darkness with. And instead of writing me off—writing us off—she opened her arms and her heart to me.

But did you share all of it with her?

I crack my neck from side to side, shaking off the thought.

“You missed the ball drop,” Leo murmurs, coming up behind me. He’s dressed in a nondescript black tuxedo, intending to blend into the crowd. But at 6’3” and with his dark hair slicked back, he looks like a goddamn Latin movie star. He sticks out in the white-washed ballroom. Giving a side eye as he moves next to me, the corner of his mouth kicks up in a slight smile. He knows what I’ve been up to.

When I don’t respond, he says, “Misha Hroshko wants to meet tomorrow.”

“Oh?” I ask, still not looking at him. I scan the room for threats. Specifically, the biggest danger of all—Benjamin Brigham. My father.

“We’re going to him,” Leo says, talking about Misha. I nod as my palms tingle. This is what we need—to get a formidable adversary on our side. We can nullify my father’s power if we can convince Misha Hroshko to join us.

“Excuse me,” a young male voice cuts in. We both look to our left and see a pimple-faced teenager standing near us in an ill-fitting uniform.

“Mr.Brigham has requested your presence, sir,” he says.

I turn to look at Leo. The subtle tick of his jaw is my only indication of what he’s thinking. He doesn’t like this. With his mouth pressed into a thin line, Leo nods with a slight tilt of his head.

“Lead the way,” I say to the boy.

“Mr.Brigham requested you come alone,” the boy says, stammering. His hands shake. When I give him a withering glare, he looks like he’s two seconds away from pissing his pants.

“He comes,” I say with a flat tone.

“R-Right. Right this way.” The kid sprints down the hall, and Leo and I look at each other before following.

When we reach the private room, our usher stops and opens the double doors with a flourish.

We’re on the other side of the country club, opposite the main entrance and the restroom where Winter and I stole moments together. There are more than a dozen suites for the most prominent members to use between golf rounds, sipping brandy, and smoking cigars.

The room before me is one of the largest if I remember the layout correctly—second only to the President’s private wing. On one end is a desk with an oversized leather chair and two low-back seats for visitors. Across the room is a fireplace and a seating area.

That’s where I find Father.

“Hunter,” my father says. He’s seated with his ankle resting on his knee, slouched. He and Blair sit across from each other, a decanter and two full tumblers on the table between them. Near the lit fireplace, Morris Winthrope stands with his back to the room. He gives me the barest acknowledgment with a glance over his shoulder.

“Father,” I say back, just as formally.

“You missed the countdown. I believe Blair was waiting for a kiss.” He reaches for his drink, bringing it to his lips. “It would have been a great photo for the press,” he adds, looking at me over the rim of the Waterford crystal. In one gulp, he downs almost half the glass.

He stares at me with bloodshot eyes, and his hair doesn’t look quite as perfect as usual.

In the face of my silence, he says, “Is there a reason why you need backup?” He tilts his head in Leo’s direction.

I don’t respond.

He sighs.

“Have it your way,” he says.

“I’m glad you called for me, actually,” I say. “I wanted to tell you that this—” I wave my hand between Blair and me “is over.”

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