Page 141 of The Oath We Give

"They say using a gun removes the personal aspect of a kill." Silas says smoothly, "This is personal."

Though his face bleeds fear, Stephen forces laughter past his lips.

"The other three dogs don’t want to play?" He mutters, trying to break free from Silas's grip. With one swift movement, Silas responds by snatching his throat in an iron grasp before slamming him onto the desk.

His eyes glisten with rage, "No games tonight. This ends with you and me."

"It'll never be over." Stephen chokes, as Silas tightens his grip around his throat, using both hands to strangle the air from his windpipe. "You can't kill my memory. I will live in her forever."

"Watch me."

The veins in Silas's arms bulge as his grip tightens. Stephen's face turning a nasty shade of deep purple. Every breath becomes a struggle, clinging to life he doesn't deserve.

For years I imagined what it would look like. To see Stephen die, how the light in his eyes would dim and the color drain from his face. It was my comfort dream on that thin mattress in the basement.

I never expected his death to be at the hand of the man I love.

"Look at her, I want you to remember her face and know you'll spend an eternity in hell paying for what you did to her." Silas seethes in a quiet whisper, "If I could kill you twice. I would."

I watch as the life drains from Stephen, fear etched into his features as he gurgles for air. A part of me wants to look away, to shield myself from the violence, but I can't.

Silas has my full attention.

I have witness him shoulder the burden of guilt that was never his to carry, watched as he suffered in silence, too afraid to speak the truth. But in this moment, as the man who nearly destroyed his life takes his last breath, I see something in Silas.

That darkness in him that frightens others. But never me.

He's not killing for pleasure or revenge, but for justice. For closure.

Death enters the room with cold hands, it fills the air and Stephen Sinclair's body, finally goes limp.

* * *

The smell of burning flesh is rancid. It carries a hint of sour sweat, an odor of raw sewage.

It's singed into the fabric of my seven-thousand-dollar wedding dress. I suppose the lingering scent is the least of my concerns, considering the state of the fabric.

Torn, muddled with dirt, splattered with blood.

This was no longer a white gown that marked the start of a lifetime commitment, but a parting dress that symbolized the end of a horror novel I'd been caught between the pages of for years.

With every crackling ember that flutters from the deep hole in the ground came a sense of relief. I feel another shackle unlocking inside of me.

I have years of healing in front of me, only the beginning of my uphill battle but for the first time since I was kidnapped?

The bars of my golden cage have melted and, as awful as the scent of charred skin may be, it smells like freedom. My freedom.

“Now what?” Rook is the first to break the silence, glancing over a Sage, who he pulls in close to his side.

The way Rook Van Doren looks at Sage Donahue, is a work of art. Like The Creation of Adam, but with eyes. Fingers just reaching out, barely grazing one another. So much emotion, in such a simple gesture.

All of us are stuck in a place of disbelief for different reasons. Liberation is vastly different for each of us. Yet, Stephen Sinclair, burning at the bottom of this grave, represents our prison.

One person connecting us all. One person who has died and set each of us free.

“Tilly’s?” Lyra mutters, rocking back and forth on her heels, “We didn’t eat at the reception.”

The glow of the fire washes over our faces, and its Briar who laughs first. I think I can’t tell because as soon as the sound hits my ears, my own joy rumbles my lips.

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