Page 8 of Oathbreaker

Blair sits straight in her seat, stiff.

Morris finally turns around, his face impassive—as if he already expected this to happen.

My father smiles. He’s amused. He’s annoyed. But his grin also holds an edge of something else unreadable.

“I’m unsure if you’ve considered the ramifications of that decision,” Father says, bringing the glass back to his lips.

The tremble in his hand as he lowers it again makes everything clear: My father needs me to follow through.

He’s not in control. My eyes slide to Morris Winthrope.

He is.

“Hunter, really. This is what you want to choose? Think about it before you throw everything away?—”

“No,” I grind out, the single syllable landing hard in the room. “I’ve considered all of it. And here’s what I see: a man losing his grip on power. I see a man who thinks he can manipulate any situation to feed his objective. But the thing that gives you power? Your ability to instill fear.” I take slow, measured steps toward him. From where he sits, I tower over him.

I don’t know what reaction to expect. In the past, he would backhand me for my insubordination. Beat me to the floor and singe my skin with the end of a lit cigar.

Maybe he’ll attack. Maybe he’ll ignore me—wave off my aggression.

But he does the one thing I don’t expect.

He looks at me, our gazes clashing. And says not a single word.

That’s when it clicks. My father only has power over me because I’ve let him have it. Yes, he can manipulate events and circumstances, but me? He can only run me if I let him. I’m not a kid anymore.

Control. I am in control.

“I’m not afraid of you.” The words are low, measured. My voice is just for his ears. It doesn’t need to be a bombastic declaration. It simply needs to be said.

He blinks. And remains silent for a long moment.

For the millionth time, I feel loathing poison every cell in my body as my eyes shift from my father to Blair’s impassive face.

I despise him.

I detest her.

They set the price for my freedom as part of the fucked-up game they want me to play. The cost is the sale of my soul. But they can’t have it—Father can’t have it.

Not anymore.

So if I want to get on the other side of this and get to a place where everyone is safe, my father can’t hurt any more people, and I can go forward and live my life with Winter and August in peace…I have to get past this part.

I have to sack up and stand up to my father.

Because every last one of them can fuck all the way off.

Even if it means going to war.

Father blinks again. As if coming out of a fog, he stands and tilts his head to the side, considering me. “Afraid? Why would you be afraid of your own father, Hunter? I’ve always wanted the best for you.” His eyes, so much like mine, are frosty, and the skin around his mouth is tense, blanched.

A throat clears across the room. “That’s well and good, Hunter, but unfortunately, I cannot accept your decision. The ball has gone too far down the court,” Morris says, gesturing to the massive space around us. He leaves his perch next to the fireplace, coming closer and crowding me in a display of dominance.

My father moves to stand shoulder to shoulder with Morris Winthrope.

Benjamin Brigham, for once, seems small. Unimpressive.

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