Debt Inheritance
Page 11

Tears welled. I didn’t want to cry. Damned if I’d shed anymore useless liquid over this bastard.
“Don’t call him a—” I stopped mid-sentence. There really wasn’t any point in arguing. He’d win. Just like he’d won up till now without a curse uttered or shout yelled.
I’m meek. He was controlling me with no ropes or chains or curses. I was under his horrible spell, threatened by the illusion of him murdering the people I held most dear.
My eyes flickered toward the exit behind him. Jethro followed my gaze. He side-stepped, waving his arm toward the temptation of running. “You want to leave? Go. If you’re so selfish to let others die for you, I’m not going to stop you. One phone call from me, Ms. Weaver, and it all ends for them.”
I didn’t move, deliberation a heavy cross on my shoulders. How could I sit there and let him take control of my life? But how could I ever live with myself if I ran?
He’d kill my family and there’d be nothing to run toward.
Everything was pointless.
I hunched, deliberately looking away from the exit.
Jethro came closer, crowding me into the booth. “Good choice. Now sit there, don’t move, and I’ll get you something that’ll make this easier.” He turned away, but not before I heard his murmured, “For me at least.”
I waited until he stood at the bar, smiling at the barmaid, before I opened a new message.
My hands shook, jiggling the phone, but I wouldn’t stop. He might not let me talk to people I love, but people I hated didn’t matter. The one person who drove me into this mess might be my only hope at surviving it.
If he forgave me.
Needle&Thread: Kite, I don’t do this lightly, but my life has taken a certain change and…well, I would like to be able to message you if it gets too much. I’m sorry I overstepped. I’m not going to say any more than…please. I need to be able to talk to you if I need to.
I pressed send, hating myself and how weak I sounded. He wouldn’t understand the strength and courage it’d taken to write that or bow into the meeker role. But I needed someone—a friend. And the sad part of my life was—I had none.
Resting my phone on the table, I stared unseeingly out of the window. Tears tried to take me hostage again, but I curled my hands, digging long nails into my palms. The pain gave me a distraction, letting me stay outwardly calm.
Jethro took his time, talking softly to the botoxed waitress. I wished he’d forget all about me so I could sneak out the door and never return.
My phone buzzed.
I’d never hoped for anything more in my life as I read the new message.
Kite007: Understand me too when I say I don’t forgive or forget lightly. But I appreciate your message and can’t deny you’ve got me intrigued. You’ve almost got me wanting to know what changed in your life to send you grovelling back to me. I’m not an idiot to know it must’ve been pretty big after what we said to each other. I’ll let you message me and reply on one condition.
There was nothing else. Glancing over at Jethro, he had his back to me waiting for his order. Still time. Still hope.
I swiftly messaged Kite back.
Needle&Thread: I accept. Whatever your condition.
Please just give me someone to talk to. No matter how cryptic and shallow he was, I needed it. So much.
Kite007: No details. I’ll reply as long as your messages don’t make me care. You’ve got the wrong man if you want sympathy.
I wanted to tell him to piss off. That he wasn’t worth it. But I swallowed my pride just as Jethro placed a single shot of white liquor in front of me. “Whoever you’re messaging, stop.”
Glaring into his light, unfeeling eyes, I flicked a curtain of hair over my shoulder.
In my first, but definitely not my last act of defiance, I typed a single word.
One word that gave me a shallow friend who didn’t care if I lived or died.
The only person I had left.
Needle&Thread: Deal.
I TRIED.
If anyone asked, I could tell the truth. I did try to stay a gentleman.
But who the fuck was I kidding? My manners had an expiration date, and Nila pushed me too far.
I guided her from the dismal excuse of a bar, through the terminal, and past security. Her arm stayed looped with mine, following submissively, obediently—like a good pet. Her feet glided in flat shoes, her dark eyes glazed but aware.
It’d been too easy. Both breaking my word and dissolving the tablet into her drink. I said I wouldn’t kidnap or drug her—that was before she showed some backbone in the coffee shop, and had the fucking audacity to ask me for something.
Sex? She willingly wanted some sort of meaningless connection with me? That pissed me off. I’d looked forward to taking that from her. The will. The desire. Stripping her of the choice before taking what she didn’t want to give.
You still can.
I just had some work ahead of me. I’d been too soft. Too gentile. It was time to make my prey fully understand the nightmare she’d walked into and put a stop to the stupid fantasises she entertained.
And I couldn’t think about her brother without wanting to fucking punch something. I shouldn’t have been so lenient. I didn’t care who she talked to as long as she remained mine to torment. But him—he could ruin everything. The Weaver men had been a constant pain in the arse since the Hawks started taking their women.
War had broken out. Lives were lost on both sides.
But we won. And would continue to win, because they were pussies and we were strong.
Nila didn’t say a word as I guided her down the airbridge and onto the plane. To an outsider she looked perfectly normal. Perhaps a little tired and spaced out, but content and not in any way distressed.
That was the wonder of this particular drug.
Externally, she acted the perfect part. Internally, I had no idea, nor cared how she felt. It wasn’t my problem if she saw everything that happened. Her mind was unhindered, but all motor control was stolen. And there was nothing she could do about it. She dealt with vertigo on a daily basis—this was no different. I’d taken her ability with the help of a simple chemical. In fact, I was kinder than vertigo, because I gave her something to hold onto.
Patting her hand that rested on my forearm, I guided her into business class. Pointing at the window seat, I waited till she sat heavily, then buckled her in. Her breathing remained low and regular, but when I sat beside her, took her hand, and guided her face to mine, I saw the truth.
She knew.
Everything.
Perfect. It’s time to begin.
Brushing black hair from her neck, I whispered, “I should warn you of something.” Running my fingers down the silky strands, I moved closer so I could breathe the threat. Silence was terrifying. Whispers petrifying. But barely spoken threats were the worst.
“Be afraid of me, Ms. Weaver. Be afraid because your life is now mine and I’m the master of everything that happens to you. But know this…it’s not just me you’ll have to fear.”
Her chest continued to rise and fall, no hiccup or flinch. But her eyes fought against the glass of unwilling intoxication, struggling to break the surface and no longer drown.
“There are others. Many others who have the right to help me ensure the debt is fully repaid. Ultimately they have to ask permission from me. But there are exceptions to every rule.”
Settling back into the leather seat, I smiled. “Remember what I told you and you might survive.”
My mouth said one thing, my eyes another.
Remember that and you’ll still die.
She heard the truth as well as my lie. Her fingers twitched, mouth parted, but the drugs were stronger than her terror.
She was inert while inside she was screaming.
The silence was a symphony to my ears.
THE BLACK SUV that I’d been stuffed into at the airport rolled to a stop beneath a humongous archway. A gatehouse, so typical of large wealthy estates in England, soared above us. Through the glass roof of the car, I made out the same crest that emblazed the door panels of the vehicle I sat in. The up lighting made it glow like a rare monument—an over emblazed welcome doormat like so many country manors had in this historically rich country.
A huge filigree design with four hawks circling a nest of fallen women welcomed, complete with a large diamond glinting in the centre. It screamed of hunting and violence and winning.
I would’ve shuddered if I had the ability to move. How many of the fallen women lived through what I was about to? How many survived?
None of them.
I knew that now. I knew what my future held.
I’d screamed and raged and howled beside Jethro on the plane. My throat bled from shouting. My heart burst from begging. But he hadn’t heard a whimper, because of the magic he’d used to subdue me.
The journey had torn my heart into shreds. Every step I took, I battled to break whatever spell he’d placed me under. Every breath I took, I fought to speak.
If I had the power of speech, I would’ve screamed that I had a bomb. I would’ve taken detainment and a full body strip search to flee from Jethro’s undeniable, possessive hold.
My entire undoing and decimation was done in utter silence. And the bastard just sat there, holding my hand, nodding at the air-hostess when she said what an elegant couple we were.
He let me dissolve into misery. He lapped up my unshed tears, and I’d seen a glimpse of the monster I’d given my life to. Thousands of feet above the earth, I’d witnessed the cold gentleman mellow into something resembling a happy lover. Someone who’d won and got their way.
“Welcome home, Ms. Weaver,” Jethro whispered against my ear.
I tried to cringe from his mouth, to huddle against the door, but the damn drug kept me locked beside him.
I blinked, inwardly sobbing, outwardly a perfect porcelain doll.
Everything had been stolen. My sense of touch, ability to speak, muscles needed to run.
A man in his early twenties appeared from a large pillar of the archway. Manifesting from the dark like a ghoul on Halloween. Jethro stiffened.
The new arrival opened the front door, sliding into the seat and nodding at the elderly man driving us. “Clive.”
The driver nodded in return, gripping the gear stick with an arthritic hand, and engaging the car once again. He hadn’t said a word since picking us up at Heathrow. Perhaps he doesn’t have a tongue? Jethro and his family probably ripped it out to protect their sadistic secrets.
We inched forward, trading the soft lighting of a hawk engraved logo for the deep darkness of forest. I stared out the window into pitch black. From Italy to England, from night to night. The engine purred, following a quaint road slicing through dense woodland.
I wanted to run. And scream. I wanted so much to scream.
Jethro scowled as the newcomer twisted in his seat, awkwardly facing us. I struggled to make out his features thanks to the dark, but the high beams of the SUV cast shadows enough to see.
“Jet.” He gave a mock salute.
Jethro scowled. “Daniel.”
“This her?” The man trailed his eyes from my lips to my breasts to my demurely placed hands in my lap. “She looks like a Weaver.”
Jethro sighed, sounding bored and annoyed. “Obviously.”
Daniel reached over, grabbing my knee. His touch sent shivers of repulsion over me, even through the cotton of my dress.
I felt that.
I held my breath. Sense of touch was the first sign of the drug wearing off. I knew when Jethro touched me, because of the pressure of his fingers. They acted like a punishment, a leash, and a reminder that my life was his. But up till now I hadn’t been able to feel temperature or texture. Neither hot nor cold. Gentle or soft.
But now I could.
It’s fading.
I hoped joy didn’t show on my face. If I could move, I could escape. Oh, Nila. Don’t be so stupid.
My joy fizzled out as fast as it’d arrived. There would be no escaping. It was yet another thing I knew just by what Jethro wasn’t saying. I’d learned something in the short flight here. His silence told me more than any part of him. His silence shouted too loudly to be ignored.
I was dead already. My last breath hinged only on how quickly he tired of his new toy.
Keeping my emotions buried, I stared blankly at the man who dared touch me. His lips pulled into a cruel smile; his fingers tightened until every inch of me wanted to jerk away.
Jethro sat still, letting him touch me.
Daniel’s nose was slightly crooked from a bad break, face fuller, body softer than Jethro’s, but there was no denying the family resemblance. Jethro was cold stone with sharp contours, gravelly voice, and imposing personality while the younger brother had more animation.
If it wasn’t for the greed glowing in his eyes, I would’ve preferred him. But despite Jethro’s granite exterior and sharpness, I knew in my heart I was better off being his plaything than this new Hawk.
There was something missing inside him.
A soul.
With a sneer, the man ran his palm up my inner thigh, bunching the material of my dress. “I must say you’re very well behaved.” He dug his nails into my delicate flesh, only a hand distance from my crotch. “You don’t flinch.” His hand suddenly left my thigh, connecting with a loud, stinging slap on my cheek. The force of his strike sent my useless body falling into Jethro. “You don’t cry.”
My face smarted and throbbed, making my heart race. I squeezed my eyes, wishing the sense of touch hadn’t returned. I didn’t want pain. I didn’t want any of this.
Jethro grunted, pushing me upright with a rough shove to my shoulder. “She’s not normally like this. Couldn’t shut her up, or stop her endless questions. So I drugged her.”