Page 37 of The Oath We Give

What do I see?

A woman who nearly every man in this room has stopped to admire in one way or another.

Not just because she’s the artist but her allure. That has nothing to do with her beauty. A lot of women are beautiful, but this is how she quietly absorbs attention, unaware of the effect she has on others. It’s in the way she walks, gestures when she talks, her posture.

There is a detached glint in her eye that draws her lips in a straight line. It makes her unapproachable, like you don’t want to disturb the thoughts that are swimming in her mind.

And yet…

You can’t fucking help yourself. You almost have no choice but to see her up close.

It doesn’t hurt that the silver dress she’s wearing fits every curve, dips low on her chest, and exposes her left leg to right above the hip, giving a tasteful amount of skin on some but a damning amount on her.

I turn back to the painting, pushing my hands into my pockets.

“A man who thinks too much and says too little,” I say, wondering if my voice still has the same effect on her in this lit room as it did in the shadows of a silent hallway.

“Forbes30 Under 30 failed to mention you were an art critic.” Out of the corner of my eye, I watch her slender arms cross over in front of her chest.

“You believe everything you read about me?”

“WhatlittleI did read seems to all be a lie.” I don’t miss the way she draws out the word “little,” wanting to remind me of how little she concerns herself with me. “They say you don’t talk much. Yet, that doesn’t seem to be the case.”

“With you.”

My answer surprises her. Maybe it’s the honesty, maybe it’s her disbelief. It is true that I don’t talk a lot, not to strangers or just for fun, but I like talking to her.

I like knowing my voice wants to be heard by someone, and even though she denies it, she wants to be that someone. I think Coraline Whittaker does concern herself with me more often than she wants me to believe. That there is a curiosity she has toward me because that night at Vervain? When my voice was the only thing keeping her from crashing over the edge?

I felt it.

That connection. The one I felt when I saw her leaving the Sinclair Manor. The one I felt when I visited her in the hospital. That secret language only the two of us understood when she called me. The little string of fate that refused to let me take my eyes off her in that club.

It hummed between us like a secret.

It kills her that she can’t pick up the scissors and cut it.

It kills me that I want more of it.

I shouldn’t be wanting more of anyone. Especially not of her.

“Is that supposed to make me feel special?”

I roll my head to the side, our eyes meeting for the first time tonight. There isn’t an ounce of shyness. She holds my gaze, one dark sculpted eyebrow arched, painted dark red lips forming a line that leaves no room for amusement.

Harshly beautiful, with very few accents of softness on her face.

Her slick brown hair slips behind her shoulders, white streaks in the front tucked behind her ears to showcase the diamonds piercing her lobes. Every movement seems calculated, as if she’d perfected the art of self-preservation in a world that had only taught her to be cautious.

“Something like that,” I taunt, never breaking our eye contact.

She wants people to see her as cold.

But she can’t hide the warmth in her chestnut-colored eyes. They can’t lie. Despite the air of detachment, that cool indifference to remind others of the distance she puts between her and the world, there are remnants of a softer creature below the surface, only hiding.

That invisible fortress she’d erected around herself protects her from everyone. Including herself, I imagine.

“Did you hunt me down for a thank-you?” she bites out, her eyes slitting into a glare. “Or need an apology for bailing at Vervain? Let me know so I can get it over with, and we can go back to never knowing the other existed.”

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