Page 53 of The Oath We Give

Stephen has always had little patience with me, especially when I refuse to speak to him.

The first few months in the basement, I refused to open my mouth. Not a word to him.

That was until he dislocated my shoulder.

For hours at a time, he would string me up. Heavy chains bolted into the concrete ceiling that locked around my wrist. I’d hang there, hovering just above the ground, my toes grazing the floor, teasing me, letting me know relief was just inches beneath me and all I had to do was talk.

He kept me there with a dislocated shoulder for two days until I learned to speak once spoken to.

This is what I get for ignoring his texts.

I thought he would come straight for me, but I was fucking stupid to think that. It’s never that easy with him.

Stephen wants me broken. You see, he wants me toneedhim. He will destroy everything, starve and torture me until the only light I see is the one he gives.

There can be nothing else but him for me.

So even though I want to be optimistic, to be the girl who hopes for the best, I know he’s done something to her because he knows Lilac is the only thing I care about.

Someone honks behind me, making me jump, and I press on the gas and roll through the traffic light. I try to follow the directions on the map, body shaking as I glance at my phone screen, watching the distance between us grow shorter and shorter.

Lilac won’t make it, my mind tells me, and I know that to be undoubtedly true.

She will not survive Stephen.

There has always been a depravity in my bones, darkness in my soul. I’m the byproduct of an affair, born cursed, and killed my mother before she even knew me to prove that.

That wickedness, both gifted and stolen? It helped me endure Stephen Sinclair.

Lilac is not me. She is good, overflowing with light. She will not make it.

“Hey, Siri. Call…”

I’ll need help, right?

Call who?

The local police? They will do nothing—half of them are probably still working with Stephen.

Our father? I’m not even sure if he’d answer the phone.

I have no one because I’ve made myself an island. Looked in the mirror one day and said it’s better to be alone. When you’re alone, no one can hurt you.

But that’s the thing.

When you’re alone, no one can help you either.

I bite the inside of my cheek, knowing I need to calm down. I need help, and there is only one person I can think of right now.

“Call Silas Hawthorne.”

My hands turn the wheel as I go around a curve, blinking numbly while the phone rings. I’m beginning to hate dial tones.

My teeth sink into my bottom lip. Despite what happened at Vervain, my bitchy fucking behavior at Tillie’s and outside the art gala, I need him to answer this phone call.

I’m selfish, fully aware of how undeserving of his kindness I am, but I still need him to pick up.

To my relief, he answers on the second ring. That calm, steady voice, like crackling embers, bounces off the windows of my car, wrapping me in the smell of cigar smoke and expensive cologne.

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