Page 74 of The Oath We Give

Silas Hawthorne had his hands all over me, and even though I was straddling his lap, never once did I think of anything except him. I smelled nothing but his tobacco-and-oak scent.

Even in the pitch-black, it was still Silas’s face in my mind. That never wavered for a second.

I’m not afraid of sex with him. I’m scared that it won’t just be sex between us. Not when there is this connection between us. A whispered language. One he hears when I’m in distress that lets him know how to anchor me. Words that feel like a soothing balm on my skin after years of standing in scorching flames.

Needing a distraction, I reach into my small handbag, grabbing my phone. I’m planning on texting Lilac, asking her what she wants for dinner so I can pick it up on my way home, but there is an unknown number on my screen.

Unknown: I wouldn’t have hurt her, Circe. You know I wouldn’t do that to you. It was only so you could get my gifts. Did you like them? Make sure you tell the Schizo to keep his hands where they belong, yeah? I miss you. I’ll be seeing you soon.

How the fuck does he keep getting my number?

“Silas,” I call above the noise of courthouse staff members.

His eyes immediately shift to mine, tuning out everyone but me. His strides close the short gap between us. Without uttering a word, I turn my phone for him to see the screen.

“Can I have that?” He motions to the phone when he’s finished reading, the energy from the elevator gone, replaced by a man who carries a look of anger. “I’ll buy you a new one.”

I nod, letting him take it from my hands.

“We need to prepare for what he’s going to do when he finds out we’re married,” I say. “He won’t take it well.”

“That’s what I’m counting on.”

Book made for [email protected]

SEVENTEEN

OLD HABITS

SILAS

“Willyou stop chewing so fucking loud?” Alistair says as he kicks the shit out of Rook’s rolling chair next to me with a loud thud.

I look over, watching Rook smirk as he eats another Dorito, chomping his teeth loudly just to be a dick. His fingers are dusted with cheese dust, feet kicked up on my desk. I shake my head, thinking about how many times he’s done this exact thing over the years of our friendship, holed up in whatever cave I’ve created, eating a snack while I fuck around on a computer.

My keyboard glows deep blue beneath my hands. The faux typewriter clacks echo as I turn my head slightly to look at one of the smaller screens to the left of the large, illuminated monitor in front of me.

“What exactly are you doing, and why do I need to be here for it?”

“Bonding, Thatcher. Don’t act like you didn’t miss me,” Rook says, gesturing to the screens in front of him. “And he’s doing something cool with technology. Wormholes and digital smokescreens.”

Thatcher rolls his eyes. In the reflection of one of the screens, I watch him cross his arms, leaning back against the metal table behind him. “Do you even know what those words mean?”

“Nope.”

I huff out a laugh. He’s been around this stuff long enough. I’m surprised that’s all he’s picked up on.

Green numbers cascade across the screen to my right, a smirk tilting my lips. After weeks of tracking emails and analyzing IP addresses, the web he’s spun is unraveling with every keystroke.

I feel myself relax into my work. Everything around me seems to slow, the soft hum of the servers and blinking lights fading into white noise that envelops the basement of my apartment. It’s a temporary solace from reality. The shelves of cables and circuit boards cast neon hues along the glass-and-metal desk in front of me.

My playground. My safe haven.

For weeks, I’ve filed through received lines and analyzed each IP address in reverse order. In a matter of minutes, if I’m lucky, I’ll have the sender’s original email server.

I won’t be able to track their location, but I’ll be able to do the next best thing.

There are rules you must follow with technology, codes and sequences that are unchangeable. But once you master them, understand the way they work, it’s yours for the taking.

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