Page 83 of Oathbreaker

I kiss the side of her head, holding her tight. She doesn’t resist. She doesn’t do or say anything.

When I let her go and walk out the door, I call out, “Get some rest. I’ll be back to talk in a little bit.”

I slam the door and lock her in.

The resounding thud of her throwing something against the door is her response.

EIGHTEEN

WINTER

For the first hour, I kept saying three phrases.

I can’t believe this motherfucker locked me in this room.

I wish I never met these people.

He killed for me, and he’ll do anything to make me feel safe.

As hour two rounded into hour three and the shadows on the floor started to get longer, I slowly devolved into the weepy, heartsick Winter that I’ve come to despise. I don’t think too deeply about the fact that I’ve since put on his hoodie and snuggled into his pillow like a psychopath.

I wish I never met Hunter Brigham.

I wish I could stop loving him.

I wish I could believe the lies I tell myself.

Burying my face into Kitty’s fur, I let his warm body and the vibrations of his breathing lower my anxiety and absorb my sorrow. Hunter and I both said and did unacceptable things in the heat of our argument. How...flat of a word. Argument. More like a soul-shattering, heart-breaking rending of our relationship.

The end of Hunter Brigham and Winter Vaughan.

A fresh rush of hot tears spill over my lids, and I feel like I’m about to suffocate. This is the end. Even beyond the fucked-up reality of his father’s actions, what happened here in this fight is not okay.

Therapist Winter knows this to be true.

So we have to end, because how could we possibly move forward from here?

Nausea wells and I want to howl with the force of my grief.

Kitty nestles into my side, his soft whimpers harmonizing with my cries.

I cry and cry until I fall asleep.

The sound of the mechanical lock whirring on the door has my eyes snapping open and I sit up in Hunter’s bed.

I stand as the door opens. Hunter looks beaten down, like it’s been days since I last saw him, not hours.

We look at each other in silence for several moments. I decide to break it.

“Did she really gun down the guards at the gate?” I say, trying to go for a light, unaffected tone.

I’m not sure it works.

“Yeah, she did,” he replies.

“And are they...” I can’t say the words because it’s so incredibly insane that she shot our guards to bum-rush her way into the estate.

“One is dead. One is in critical condition. The other has a flesh wound to the thigh. It could have been bad if they’d hit his femoral.”

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