Page 108 of The Oath We Give

The banner I’m trying to hang outside the studio once again falls from my grip. I have exactly two hours before people start showing up, and this studio is a disaster. Nothing is ready, and I’m slipping further underwater as the time passes.

“Stupid hot, sexy hands.” I curse beneath my breath, strangling the banner in my hands. “Stupid cologne that smells good, stupid tongue that—”

“Looks like we showed up right on time.”

I nearly fall from the small ladder I’m standing on as I turn around, the banner fluttering to the ground as I look at the people standing beneath me.

Perched on the sidewalk in front of my open studio, Sage peers up at me with black sunglasses shielding her eyes from the summer sun and a grin.

“What are you guys doing here?”

Slowly, I start to make my down the steps of the ladder until I’m back on the ground, where feet belong. Fuck that ladder, and fuck that banner.

“Silas called, said you might need some help.” Briar is wearing a smirk and what I’m assuming is Alistair’s hoodie from the size of it, the way it falls to mid-thigh before fishnet leggings take over. “Looks like he was right.”

“Ya know,” Lyra hums, rocking back and forth on her heels, “I’m starting to take offense that you don’t just ask us yourself.”

I bite down on the inside of my cheek, unsure if I can tell them the truth.

That I’m so used to not having support, having to do everything alone, that I forgot there were people out there willing to help me now.

“Don’t take it like that,” I say. “I’m like this with everyone. Asking for isn’t something—”

“You’re good at? No shit,” Sage interrupts, shoving her glasses onto her head. “Don’t worry, you’ll get over it with these two. I did, just takes some time.”

“Are you doing this because I’m married to your boyfriend’s best friend?” I ask, looking at each of their faces, crossing my arms in front of my chest. “If we are just civil by association, that’s fine. Or is it pity? Because of what happened to me? I just, I need to know why you’re trying so hard to be nice to me.”

Briar tilts her head. “Why are you so skeptical?”

I admire the bluntness of her question, even though I’m sure she wanted to say,why are you such a bitch.

It’s not like I want to be this way. Guarded and mistrusting. But it’s hard when person after person lets you down. I want to believe their intentions are good, but I can’t help but feel suspicious.

“A friend of mine from high school, Yasmine?” I offer them, fully aware everyone knows the daughter of two art tycoons, a girl I’d known since kindergarten. We fell in love with art together, and just as quickly, that masterpiece of a friendship fell apart.

“She was there for me when I was rescued. Sent me get-well packages and flowers to my hospital room. Even came over and brought these home-cooked meals, trying to encourage me to get back into painting.” I drag my tongue along my bottom lip, shaking my head as I sigh. “Yeah, well, three months after, there was a news frenzy—people knew about things I’d only told Yasmine. The scars Stephen left on me, the torture and humiliation he’d put me through, all of the secrets I’d told her in confidence were released for public consumption, and they fucking devoured it.”

It broke something in me, knowing strangers all over the world were reading about me being forced to eat out of a dog bowl and relieve myself in a bucket, listening to podcasts and news anchors talk about my mental status.

“How does someone fall in love with a person that dislocates their shoulder?”

“She had to be into some kinky shit before she was kidnapped.”

I’d been sliced open, still alive and able to feel, while people peered into my insides. Poked around with their nosey hands, making assumptions based only on what the media fed them.

I became a story. My humanity was forgotten.

It was the exact reason I’d refused to talk to the media in the first place.

Yasmine was only the first to betray my trust.

“What a fucking cunt,” Briar mutters.

“She still lives in the Springs. We could—”

“You’re not allowed to stab her. If you get arrested, Thatcher is going to blame us, and I am not dealing with his melodrama,” Sage interjects before Lyra can finish her sentence, making her roll her eyes.

“I was going to say we could slash her tires,” Lyra corrects, and although her features give an innocent, shy vibe, there is a look in her eye that tells me she’d kill someone if she had to. “Anyway, we aren’t trying to be friends to make a quick buck from the tabloids.”

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