Fourth Debt
Page 23

I jumped a mile as the door smashed against the dresser again, an aggravated sigh exploding.
He might have a key to lock me inside, but I had a better barricade. He would only touch me when I was ready. And then, it would be the last thing he ever did.
I supposed I should thank him for his prior warning. Allowing me to prepare for a midnight visitor.
Not only had I manhandled the dresser across the door, I’d also fashioned pieces of fabric with sharp needles embedded to make a simple knuckleduster. I’d counted how many scissors I had, how many tools I could use to defend myself, and what would cause the most damage.
I’d hidden my arsenal around the room. Some I stashed in my bedside table, some beneath my workstation, and even tucked in pockets sewn into my duvet. My clothing had also undergone an upgrade with knitting needles and scalpels carefully sewn into cuffs and hems.
Once I’d moved the dresser, I’d replaced the drawers and heavy fabric bolts that’d rested inside its carcass. There was no earthly way someone could move it. Not unless they had ten Black Diamonds outside my door.
Which I wouldn’t discount as a possibility.
Jethro was gone. But it didn’t mean I would go quietly.
I’m ready, you asshole.
Just try me.
Almost on cue, the door slammed open again, smashing against the dresser with a resounding crack. A curse fell in the silence; they jiggled the knob, followed by another smash.
I stood vibrating on the other side, pulling my dirk free from my waistband.
Daniel would need a bomb to move the dresser, but it didn’t mean I was safe. Who knew if he had secret passages into this room? Ancient houses such as Hawksridge had rabbit warrens of unseen pathways and secret compartments.
The door slammed again, banging louder with frustration.
I huddled into a battle stance, preparing to stab Daniel’s hand through the crack. My mouth watered with the urge to hurl profanity and curses. To threaten and thwart.
“Nila, open the damn door.”
I froze.
It wasn’t Daniel.
Time ticked past, stretching uncomfortably.
“Nila…it’s me.”
Me?
The voice was feminine. Sweet and soft but hushed and worried.
Not a man with rape on his mind but a sister with grief.
A sister I couldn’t stand.
I laughed coldly. “So forcing me to sign myself over to you this afternoon wasn’t enough, huh?” My hand curled tight around my blade. “Come to cause more damage just like your fucked-up family?”
Jasmine sucked in a breath.
I inched closer to the door, nervousness popping in my blood.
“Just open the door. Now.”
“What? So I can welcome you inside for a sleep-over and we can paint each other’s nails?” I snorted. “I don’t think so, Jasmine. You’re a traitor to your brothers—a snake just like your grandmother.” Filling my voice with venom, I spat, “You’re just like them, and I want nothing to do with you.”
“You have no choice. Let me in the damn room.”
He’s dead because of you. He’s dead because he loved you.
My teeth clamped together. God, if she were in front of me, I’d stab her through her heartless chest.
“Piss off.”
“Let me in.”
“No chance. The next time we see each other, it’s not going to end well. I suggest you get out of my sight.”
Jasmine punched the door or rammed it with her chair—the noise signalled rapidly fraying anger. “Ah, fuck, what did he ever see in you?!” She bumped against the door again, lowering her voice. “We need to talk.”
“I don’t talk with betrayers.”
“You want me to get someone to help? ‘Cause I will. And you won’t like the consequences.”
My hand rose, the light from my side lamps kissing the blade with promise. “Do whatever you want, but I assure you it’ll be you who doesn’t like the—”
“Fine!”
Silence fell.
Animosity throbbed, slowly settling the longer we remained quiet.
Finally, a small whisper met my ears. “Just give me two minutes. Just listen. Can you do that? Or is that asking too much?”
I paused.
Two minutes was nothing in a lifetime. But two minutes to me was too high a cost. I existed on borrowed time.
“Why should I?” I drifted closer to the door despite myself.
“Because…it’s important.”
The genuine honesty in her voice dragged me forward. She sounded more real and true in that one microsecond than she had all afternoon.
Leaning around the dresser, I looked through the crack.
Not much was visible, but Jasmine’s face glowed in the dark corridor. Red-rimmed eyes, sad-bitten lips, and sorrow-dusted cheeks—she didn’t look well.
In fact, she looked ten years older than when I’d seen her at the meeting. Almost as if the past few hours had drained her of everything.
I wanted to slap myself.
Don’t believe it!
It was all an act. The perfect con-artist making me trust her because she looked so undone.
“It won’t work, you know.” I scowled. “I’m not buying into your sad sister act. Not after what you’ve done.”
Jasmine looked up, her face haggard. “I know you hate me. I feel it. But you have to put that aside and listen to me.”
If the door didn’t separate us, I’d wring her neck and throttle whatever conniving words she wanted to spout. “I don’t have to do anything.”