Page 34 of Forsaken Oath

As if guided by an invisible force, the crowd parts before him like the Red Sea. And there, in the midst of it all, he stands.

Beau.

My Beau.

16

ELOISE

Beau leansagainst the hood of a sleek charcoal gray Dodge Challenger Hellcat, the epitome of casual confidence. The car gleams under the floodlights, its curves and angles speaking of raw power barely contained. But it’s Beau who commands attention, effortlessly drawing every eye.

Damn him. He looks good.Too good. I had all but convinced myself that I exaggerated how attractive he was.

I look at him like I’m expecting him to lock eyes with me, like we’re going to have some kind of epic movie moment.

But things like that just don't happen to people like me.

A flicker of regret rushes through me, but I push it down hard. I’m not here for him, not for whatever happened between us, and certainly not for any feelings I might be foolish enough to entertain.

And I hate that this development will sully my one night.

A swirl of emotions churns inside my gut: surprise, confusion, and a sharp pang of betrayal. I roll my eyes, annoyed with myself for being irrational. I don’t usually have such dramatic feelings, but I’m so caught off guard right now.

I know it’s not fair. Not really. He never lied outright to me. But seeing him here, in his element, itfeelslike a deception. Like that night we spent together was just a fantasy, a dream that dissolved tonight under the harsh light of flood lights.

What are the odds that we met in a town hours away, spent an epic night together, only to discover we’ve been living in the same damn place this whole time? Avalon Falls isn’t huge, but it’s not that small.

I tear my gaze away from Beau and slip back into the crowd, finding a spot in the stands with a clear view of the track. I lean against the metal railing, the cool surface grounding me as I try to calm the riot of emotions swirling inside me.

The air thrums with anticipation as the drivers take their positions, engines revving like a pack of restless beasts. I spot Beau’s Hellcat near the front, its sleek lines a sharp contrast to the flashier cars surrounding it.

A hush falls over the speedway, our collective breath held in anticipation. In the sudden quiet, the rumble of the engines seems to echo, a promise of the raw power about to be unleashed.

The starting light flashes green and the cars surge forward as one, tearing down the track in a blur of color and speed. It’s a dizzying sight, the pack jostling for position as they hurtle into the first turn.

My blood hums in my veins, adrenaline spiking and urging me to get in my car and join them. I can’t believe this was me two nights ago. Though the Alley is a lot morerusticthan Clearwater. This feels like some kind of amateur weeknight race and not a pre-qualifier to an illegal Gauntlet.

My eyes are locked on Beau’s car as it slices through the chaos, moving with a fluid grace that seems almost otherworldly.

He’s fucking incredible.

I watch, mesmerized, as the Hellcat weaves through the pack with preternatural precision. It’s like watching a dance, each move calculated and flawlessly executed. He drifts into turns with breathtaking control, the back end of his car flirting with the other bumpers before he whips it back into line.

The other drivers fight for position, jockeying and swerving, their desperation palpable even from where I stand. But Beau remains untouchable, gliding through the chaos like a shark cutting through bloody water.

As the final lap approaches, the energy in the speedway reaches a fever pitch. The crowd is on their feet, voices hoarse from shouting and hands red from clapping. The air itself seems to vibrate with anticipation, charged like the moments before a lightning strike.

After toying with the other drivers, Beau takes the final turn with breathtaking precision and soars across the finish line in first place.

As people clap and cheer, I slip out of the crowd and leave the speedway. I’ve seen enough for one night.

The rumbleof engines fills the night air, a discordant symphony of squealing tires and revving motors. I keep my gaze fixed ahead, determined not to give them the satisfaction of a reaction. But their voices grow louder, more insistent, as the cars slow to a crawl beside me.

“Hey there, pretty thing,” one of them calls out, his voice dripping with the faux sweetness that only the most entitled assholes use. “Need a ride?”

I glance to my right, at the car keeping pace with me. I recognize it from the track. A purple Mustang. It’s the kind of bright color that’s begging people tolook.

I stare straight ahead, continuing my easy pace down the sidewalk. The sounds of the block party festival echo are loud enough that it sounds like it’s just a block over instead of nine.

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