Page 79 of Forsaken Oath

“You’ll never have to find out,” I say lightly, but the words catch in my throat. I don’t think she has any idea how much those moments of love—like this one—mean to me. How theyclash with the secrets she kept from me about my biological father.

I head to the dining room and set the plates down at each spot. The sound of laughter and the low hum of the TV float from the living room, where I know Dad, Graham, Cora and Jagger are watching the pregame commentary.

“Yo, dinner’s ready!” I call as I pass the archway to the living room.

Dad is the first to respond, rising from the couch with his usual energy. “Beau, my boy,” he greets, pulling me into one of his signature dad hugs—firm, two pats on the back, followed by a quick shoulder squeeze. “You’re looking chipper today.”

“It’s Sunday,” I say, grinning. “Best day of the week.”

“Someone’s in a mood,” Cora says as she rounds the couch, her head tilting slightly as she studies me. “What’s going on with you?”

Jagger smirks, slipping an arm around her waist. “Maybe he just had a really good coffee this week.”

The grin freezes on my face, and I bite the inside of my cheek. Of course, Hawke couldn’t keep his mouth shut about my run-in with Eloise at the coffee shop. “Something like that,” I mutter, throwing Jagger a flat look.

Jagger chuckles, unfazed. “Good for you, man.”

Cora looks between us. “I don’t get it.”

He tosses his arm around my sister and leans down to murmur, “I’ll tell you later, baby.”

“Ugh, get a fucking room,” Graham grumbles, his voice muffled by the couch cushions.

“Watch it, son,” Dad says, his brows drawing low as he glances at Graham. “What’s up with him lately?”

Graham sits up, muttering something under his breath. I file that moment away for later, noting the tension in his shoulders as he stalks past me.

“Not sure,” I murmur with a shrug. I’ve been a little wrapped up in my girl and the Gauntlet to pay too much attention to my brother, but I have noticed he’s been out a lot more than usual.

With everyone helping, it only takes a few minutes to set the table. Within minutes, we’re all seated. Dad claims his usual spot at the head of the table, Ma on the other end. Jagger pulls out Cora’s chair like the chivalrous bastard he is, murmuring something that has her blushing. Her easy laughter floats around the room, just in time for Graham to stalk to his usual seat next to me. He pulls it out a little harder than necessary, his gaze glued to his phone.

“Dude, what is going on with you?” I keep my voice low.

His shoulders hunch as he types something on his phone. He rolls them back and tucks his phone away in one smooth movement. “Nothing. I’m fine.”

Ma beams as she sets the last dish on the table. “Dig in, everyone!”

We pass around dishes, piling plates high with meatloaf, mashed potatoes, and garlicky green beans. The familiar clink of silverware fills the air, a soothing rhythm of home.

Graham gestures to the empty chair beside Coraline with his fork. “I thought Abby was going to come home soon.”

“She was,” Ma says, her tone ringing with false positivity, her pitch too high. She lifts a dish of garlic bread on the table and passes it to Cora. “But they needed her for something unexpected. She’s very in-demand, you know. I don’t know what they’d do without her.”

“I’m sure they’d manage if she really wanted to take vacation,” Graham mutters, stabbing a piece of meatloaf with more force than necessary.

Ma’s face falls, and she glances away, blinking too fast. I kick my brother underneath the table, a direct shot to the shins. He grunts, but he doesn’t say anything else.

An awkward silence descends over the table, the clinking of silverware against plates the only sound. I glance at Cora, who is focused intently on cutting her meatloaf into tiny pieces. Jagger clears his throat and takes a long sip of water.

“Well, I’m sure she’ll make it back soon,” Dad says in a forcibly cheerful tone.

“How’s the Hellcat running?” Jagger asks me between bites.

“Solid. Hawke took a look earlier this week—turns out it just needed a tune-up.” I reach for the green beans.

“Hawke?” Dad asks, curiosity flickering across his face.

“He works with Jagger,” I say, nodding toward him. “Knows his stuff.”

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