Final Debt
Page 86

Was she with Bonnie on the third floor?
Was she with Cut on the fourth?
Or was she already in the ballroom on the ground floor, on her knees and about to become the latest stain in a horrendous basket?
“Step on the gas.” My order lurched us forward, tyres grinding gravel, skidding around bends and hurling us closer to the awaiting battleground.
I’d deliberately chosen to travel with two mercenaries and not Nila’s brother or father. I needed to keep my head clear and I couldn’t do that with Vaughn’s emotions bouncing kamikaze in his skull or Textile’s secrets gnawing a hole in my patience.
No one talked as we pulled to a stop by the stables. A wash of homesickness crippled me. Not for the Hall but for Wings. Being around so many people set my nerves on edge. My condition flickered with intensity and numbness. One moment, I was blank from sensory overload, and the next, I’d succumb to frivolous things of what the men would do afterward, what they planned to do during.
People saw fellow humans as respectful and civilized. Only, I knew the truth.
They were as animalistic as they’d been hundreds of years ago. Inner thoughts and unspoken quips painted them as vindictive, selfish, and focused on things that should never be revealed aloud.
It almost made me happy to know I wasn’t as terrible as I’d feared. I was normal. I was human. I had faults and flaws and fears, but despite all of those, I tried to be better, bolder, and braver than I truly was.
And that was what made right triumph over wrong.
Isn’t it?
At least, I hoped so.
The convoy rolled to a stop, and Dec gave the order to leave the cars behind. Boots landed on gravel, and car doors quietly closed. Concentration levels of the men added to the cauldron of emotions, and I wiped away a combination of fever and sweat from trying not to listen.
Once Nila was safe and Hawksridge secured, I would need to be alone. I knew the symptoms of system failure. I knew when I’d reached my limit. A wash of nausea climbed up my gullet, and my hands shook as I wrapped fingers around the gun Dec handed me.
I was borderline.
Overtiredness and over-empathy would end up killing me if I didn’t kill Cut soon.
“Come on.” I waved for the men to line up behind me, a black line patrolling from the stables toward the Hall.
Leaving the cars behind, I guided the men up the hill toward the house. We stuck to the trees as much as possible, moving in short waves. Weapons were drawn as we crested the hill and made our final descent.
I didn’t say a word, too focused on seeking weakness and attack points of my family’s home. I searched the shadows for Kill and his men, trying to see where they hid, but spotted no one.
The closer we got to the Hall, the more my heart pounded.
V and Tex shadowed my every move and luck kept us shrouded long enough to sidle up to the ancient architecture and fan out around the buttresses of Hawksridge.
Left or right?
I couldn’t decide.
Dining room wing or staircase leading to boudoirs and parlours?
The wind howled over the orchard, sounding like someone screamed.
I froze; my head tilted toward the dining room wing…the ballroom wing.
The noise came again.
Haunting.
Lamenting.
Dragging chills over my flesh.
It came again, shrill and cut short.
It wasn’t the wind.
Fuck surprise.
Fuck the regimented ambush.
Fuck everything.
Nila!
I held my gun aloft and charged.
“READY TO DIE, Nila?”
Cut’s voice physically hurt me as he forced me up the crudely made steps and onto the wooden foundation. My heart tore through my ribcage.
Jasmine screamed from across the room. Her cry split the ballroom apart, tears staining her pretty cheeks. “Please.”
Tears of my own threatened to wash me away, but I wanted to remain dry-eyed. I wanted to remember my last few moments in perfect clarity and not swimming with liquid.
Cut wrenched my arms behind my back; I groaned with agony from my break. The twine wrapped around my wrists, bending my forearm unnaturally.
“Please. Don’t—”
Cut spun me around with his large hands on my shoulders. His golden eyes glowed with apology, and at the same time, resolution. “Hush, Nila.” His lips touched mine, sweet and soft, before he marched me to the kneeling podium and pressed hard. “Kneel.”
“No!”
“Kneel.” His foot kicked out, nudging the back of my knee, shattering my stability and sending me cracking into place. I cried out as the pain in my kneecaps matched the pain in my arm. Like a snapped needle, I lost my sharpness, my fight.
The ballroom splendour mocked me as I bowed unwillingly at the foot of my executioner.
Velvet and hand-stitched crewel on the walls glittered like the diamonds the Hawks smuggled—a direct contrast to the roughly sawn wood and crude craftsmanship of the guillotine dais.
“Don’t do this. Cut…think about what you’ve become. You can stop this.” My voice mimicked a beg, but I’d vowed not to beg. I’d seen things, understood things, and suffered things I never thought I would be able to endure. I’d been their plaything for months, their adversary for years, their nemesis for centuries. I refused to cry or grovel. I wouldn’t give him that satisfaction.
I know the history of the Hawks. I know I’m stronger than they are.
“I want to live. Please, let me live.”
He cleared his throat, masking any thoughts of hesitation. “In five minutes, this will all be over.” Cut bent to the side and collected a wicker basket.