As I moved closer, my heart stopped beating.
It couldn’t be.
Yet it was.
Cut grabbed the handles of the cupboard and swung the doors wide, revealing what he’d shown me the night of my sixteenth birthday. That same night, he’d made me watch what he did to Emma Weaver. He made me witness video after video of what he’d done to Nila’s mother, all while beating me if I ever dared look away.
Sickness rolled in my gut.
My hands balled.
Palms sweated.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
Once again, my father had reminded me of my place and how fragile my wants, dreams, and very existence were.
My eyes burned as I drank in the age-old equipment passed down through generations. Shelf after shelf of torturous items used in extracting debts from the Weavers.
Cut’s face darkened, motioning me forward when I stayed locked to the floor. “I think it’s time you and I had a little chat, Jet.” Taking one particular item from the cupboard, I knew what he would make me do.
And I knew whatever love Nila felt for me would vanish like it never existed.
I couldn’t move, but it didn’t stop Cut from prowling toward me and placing the hated item into my shaking hands. Curling my fingers around the salt shaker, I hated that something so simple could deliver something so unforgivable.
My father murmured, “You have one last chance, Jethro. Use it well.”
Ice howled.
Snow fell.
Blizzards blew like fury.
I hung my head and gave in.
Motherfucking shit.
That was yesterday.
A Sunday I would never forget.
Today was Monday.
A Monday that I wished I could erase.
Last Monday had been full of freedom, kisses, and passion; polo and sex and blistering new beginnings.
This Monday was full of mourning and pain. Today was the day I became the true heir to Hawksridge because if I didn’t, I doubted I would wake in the morning.
Cut hadn’t said as much. But it was what he didn’t say that made the biggest impression.
Do this or I’ll kill you.
Obey me or this is the end.
Cut had seen what I knew he would. He took great pleasure in informing me that he knew I’d fucked Nila. He knew I’d chased after her during half-time at polo, and he knew my allegiances were changing.
It’d been a long fucking night.
After our talk, he’d forced me to go deep, deep inside. He tore away any progress Nila had made with me and filled me with snow once again.
In an odd way, I was grateful.
Grateful because without him tampering with my psyche, there was no way in flying fuck I would’ve got through today.
I thought I’d had months.
I thought I’d been the one in control of when the next payment would happen, but as always…I was wrong.
Cut had seen my ultimate plan before I’d even finalised the details.
He’d understood my tentative scheming of dragging out the debts until I was thirty. By then, I would’ve been in charge. By then, I might’ve found a way to spare Nila’s life without losing mine.
I had the Sacramental Pledge over the Debt Inheritance.
I’d put things in place to end this—once and for all.
But none of my forward thinking mattered anymore.
Today was the day Nila paid the Second Debt.
THE MOMENT JETHRO walked into my quarters, I knew.
We’d slept together three times, spent only weeks in each other’s company, yet I knew his soul almost as well as I knew my own.
Mystery still shrouded him, still hid so much, but I’d learned to read his body language.
I’d learned how to listen to his heart.
“No,” I whispered, clutching the tulle I’d been working on to my chest.
Jethro looked away, his face blank and unfeeling. “Yes.”
I didn’t need words to tell me what had happened. The truth was far too vivid to ignore.
His father.
His father had shoved him back into the blizzard and slammed the door in his face. He’d done something to him that wedged a canyon between us and left us with only one thing.
The debts.
Our emotions were on hold.
Our connection severed.
My heart sank.
I let the lilac tulle slip through my fingers, destroying the carefully pinned pattern of a ball gown that would be my centre piece of my Rainbow Diamond Collection.
Last night, I’d formulated a few goals. If I intended to stay at Hawksridge, to finish whatever had begun between Jethro and me, I had to give the outside world an explanation.
I had to put an end to the suspicion about what’d happened to me.
People were talking. This morning, I’d turned on my phone and browsed a few websites for what they thought happened to me. Scarily, there were a few very close to the truth—it seemed strange that something so incomprehensible could be guessed at so closely.
Almost as if someone had been telling secrets that they shouldn’t.
Vaughn perhaps?
Could he be behind the leaked knowledge? I wanted to ask him but he hadn’t replied to my messages. He’d gone completely silent.
Regardless, it didn’t matter. I was stuck here, and I had to find some way to deal with what was out there. It was time to announce a new fashion line, and at the same time, put those rumours to rest.
Along with the hunches on my disappearance, I’d also read Jethro’s message that he sent the morning of the polo match. His words were sincere but also full of regret. Would his offer to answer my questions via text still stand—even when he looked at me as if he were dead inside?
Pulling extra pins from my cuffs, I shook my head. “Jethro…it’s too soon.”
I thought I’d have weeks yet…months even. You didn’t think—you hoped.
If I had known this would happen, I would’ve gone to him sooner. I would’ve forced him to face the truth and discuss once and for all what’d happened between us last Monday. Instead, I’d done nothing but work. I didn’t wander the premises or go for a run. The constant fear of where Daniel lurked had kept me trapped better than any bars or cage.
Trembles took over my chilled muscles. “Surely there must be a way to stop—”
“Quiet, Ms. Weaver. I have no patience for your begs.” Stalking toward me, he growled, “You know what is expected of you.”
I searched his gaze for the warmth and golden glow of before.
There was nothing.
Closing the distance, I wrapped my arms around his frigid body. Once again, his extremities were cold. No heat. No liveliness.
“Jethro…please…” Nuzzling into his chest, I willed him to feel my panic, to comprehend how terrified I was of paying another debt.
He balled his hands. “Let me go.”
I snuggled closer. “No. Not until you admit that you don’t want to do this.”
His fingers landed on my shoulders, prying me away from him. “Don’t presume to know what I want.”
“But it’s too soon! The lash marks have barely healed on my back. I need more time.”
Time to mentally prepare.
Time to steal you away.
“How do you know the timeline for what will take place?” Leaning forward, he snatched my wrist and dragged me forward. “You don’t know a thing about anything, Ms. Weaver. There is no script—no right and wrong when another debt can be taken. It’s time.”
The cold finality in his voice siphoned into my blood, delivering a vicious vertigo attack. I fell forward as the room flipped upside down.
I cried out as I stumbled, swaying to the side only for Jethro to jerk me upright.
I hated the weakness inside me. I hated that there was no cure.
I would be afflicted all my life.
Is Jethro the same?
Could whatever he s
uffer be the same as my vertigo? Incurable, unfixable—something accepted as broken and forever unchangeable?
While I swam in sickness, Jethro dragged me over to the ancient armoire where I’d placed my clothes and shoved aside the hangers to reveal the back panel. Pressing hard on the wood, the walnut veneer sprang open, revealing a secret compartment with hanging white calico shifts.
I moaned, trying my damnedest to shove aside the lingering after effects of the attack, and struggled weakly as Jethro turned his attention to my grey blouse.
Without a word, he undid the pearl buttons, quickly and methodically with no hint of sexual interest or burning desire.
My limbs were endlessly heavy. I lamented the unjust fate of my last name as he pushed my stretchy black leggings to the floor.
Leaving me dressed only in a white lace bra and knickers, Jethro snagged a calico shift and dumped it over my head.
I blinked nauseously as he tugged my arms through the holes as if I were a child.
What was going on? Where was the man who’d held me while he came inside me? Where was the softness…the gentleness?
The minute I was dressed, he demanded, “Take off your shoes.”
I stared into his gaze, looking for a smidgen of hope. I wanted to reach inside and make him care again.
He stood taller, a flicker of life lighting up his features. “Don’t. Just…it’s better this way.” He sighed heavily. “Please.”
I tensed to fight. To argue. But his plea stopped me.
Ironically, I was the one about to be hurt—made to pay a debt I had no notion of—yet he was the one most in pain.
He needed to stay in his shell to remain strong.
Despite my misgivings and terror bubbling faster and faster in my blood, I couldn’t take that away from him.
I’d fallen for him. What sort of person would I be if I willingly stripped him bare when he wasn’t coping? Even if he’d been tasked to hurt me?
Only a stupid, love-struck one.
Do something, Nila. It’s you or him.
Wrong.
Grabbing his hand, I pressed our tattooed indexes together and summoned all my courage. “We’re in this together. You told me so yourself.”
He tensed; his face twisted with unmentionable emotion. Hanging his head, he nodded. “Together.”
“In that case, do what you need to do.”
We stood awkwardly, both wanting to say things that would break the fragile bravery of the moment, but neither strong enough.
Finally, he nodded, and pointed at my shoes.
I didn’t argue or reply.
Kicking off my jewelled flip-flops, Jethro led me silently out the door and through the Hall.
Every footfall sent my heart higher and higher until every terrified beat clawed at the back of my throat. I’d been scared in my life. I’d bawled my eyes out when Vaughn had almost drowned at the beach. I’d become almost comatose with terror when I knew I’d never see my mother again.
But this…this marching toward the Second Debt turned my blood into tar. I moved as if I were underwater, suffering a terrible dream I couldn’t wake from.
I wanted my twin. I wanted him to make it better.
Leaving the Hall behind, Jethro continued to march me over the freshly mowed lawn, past the stables and kennels where Squirrel and a few foxhounds lounged in the autumn sun, and over the hill.
His footsteps were interspersed with an occasional limp—barely noticeable. Was he hurt?
The shift I wore protected me from nothing. The breeze disappeared up the sleeves and howled around my midriff, creating a mini cyclone within my dress.
My trembles ratcheted higher as goosebumps kissed my flesh.
“What—what will happen?” I asked, forcing myself to stay strong and stoic.
Jethro didn’t reply, only increased his pace until we crested the small incline. The moment we stood on the ridge, I had the answer to my question.
Before us was the lake where Cut and his sons had fished for trout on his birthday. It was a large manmade creation in the shape of a kidney. Willow trees and rushes graced its banks, weeping their fronds into the murky depths.
It would’ve been peaceful—a perfect place for a picnic or a lazy afternoon with a book.
But not today.
Today, its shoreline didn’t welcome ducks and geese, but an audience all dressed in black.
Cut, Kes, and Daniel waited with unreadable stares as Jethro propelled me down the grassy mound and closer to my fate.
Cut seemed happier than I’d seen him since I’d arrived, and Daniel sucked on a beer as if we were at his favourite ballgame. Kes had the decency to hide his true feelings behind his mysterious secrecy. His face drawn and blank.
Then my eyes fell on the woman before them.
Bonnie Hawk.
The name came to me as surely as if she wore a name tag. This was the elusive grandmother—the ruler of Hawksridge Hall.
Her lips pursed as if my presence offended her. Her papery hands with vivid blue veins remained clutched in her lap. Her white hair glowed as she sat regally, poised better than any young debutant, not an elderly croon. The chair she sat in matched her bearing, looking like a morbid throne with black velvet and twilled claw-foot legs.
A staff member stood beside her with a parasol, drenching the dame in shade from the noonday sunshine.
It hurt to think the sun beamed upon such a place. It didn’t pick favourites when casting its golden rays—whether it be innocent or guilty—it shone regardless.
I looked up into the ball of burning gas, singeing my retinas and begging the sun to erase all memory of today.
Bonnie sniffed, raising her chin.
Cut stepped forward, clasping his hands in glee. “Hello, Ms. Weaver. So kind of you to join us.”
“I didn’t exactly have a choice.” I shuddered, no longer able to fight the terror lurking on the outskirts of my mind. Claws of horror sank deep inside me, dragging me further into panic.
Cut grinned, noticing my ashen skin and quaking knees. “No, you didn’t. And you have no idea how happy that makes me.”
Turning his attention to his son, he said, “Let’s begin. Shall we?”
I NODDED.
What else could I do?
If I refused, Kes would step in. If I refused, I would be killed.
My eyes fell on my grandmother. She hoisted her nose higher in the air, waiting for me to start. Cut had deliberately brought Bonnie to watch—to be there if I failed.
I have no intention of failing.
I’d managed to stay cold the moment I stepped into Nila’s quarters. Even when she’d looked into my eyes and snuggled into my chest, I hadn’t warmed. I intended to remain aloof and removed until it was over.
It was the only way.
Cut stepped back, squeezing his mother’s shoulder.
Bonnie Hawk looked up at him, smiling thinly. He was her favourite. But just like her son, she couldn’t stand her grandchildren.
Jasmine. She stands Jasmine.
That was true. If there was anyone who’d excelled in this family and played perfectly in the role she’d been given, it was Jaz.
Cut said, “Begin, Jet. Pretend we aren’t here if it will make you feel any better.”
I held back my snort. I never wanted to forget that they were here. If I did, I’d lose any hope of being icy and slip. I’d find a way to take it easy on Nila and avoid certain parts of this debt—just like I’d done with the First Debt and not freezing her the way I should have.
Today, there would be no leniency. Today, Nila must be strong enough to face the full brunt of what my family would do to her.
Stop avoiding the truth.
What you will do to her. You alone.
In that instant, I wanted to hand the power over to Kes. Make him do it—so Nila would hate him instead of me.
Nila stood quivering beside me. The air was chilly but not cold enough to warrant the chattering of her teeth or b
lueness of her fingers.
She’s petrified.
And for good reason.
“Jethro, I suggest you begin. I’m not getting any younger, boy,” Bonnie muttered.
Daniel snickered, gulping down another mouthful of beer. “Snap, snap, old chap.”
Kes crossed his arms, locking away his thoughts completely.
I looked to the piece of equipment that had been secured to the pond’s banks. It remained covered by a black cape—for now.
Soon, Nila would see what it was, and she would understand what would happen.
But first, I had to be eloquent and deliver the speech I’d been taught to memorize since I’d been told of my role.
Grabbing Nila’s arm, I positioned her on the patch of earth that’d been decorated with a thick pouring of salt. I’d done the design. The sunrise had witnessed my artistry as I followed an ancient custom.
Nila’s eyes dropped to her feet as I pressed her hard, telling her with actions alone not to move.
“Oh, my God,” she murmured, slapping a hand over her mouth.
My wintry ice saved me from feeling anymore of her panic; I locked my muscles as I prepared to recite.
The pentagram she stood in gave a giant hint as to the debt she would be paying.
Her black eyes met mine, her hair whipping around her face, just like it had when she’d found the graves of her ancestors.
It was almost serendipitous that she would pay this debt now—especially after I’d thought that she’d looked like a witch casting a curse on the Hawks.
“As you can see, Ms. Weaver. You stand in a pentacle star. It’s well known that the five-pointed star represents the five wounds of Christ. It’s been used in the Church for millennia. Yet a reversed pentagram is the symbol of dark magic—a tool wielded by Wiccans and practiced regularly in witchcraft.”
My family stared enraptured, even though they knew the tale by heart.
Nila seemed to shrink, her eyes never leaving the thick rivers of salt penning her in a motif of wickedness.
“Your ancestor was found practicing the dark arts, for which she escaped severe punishment. In the 1400’s, it was common for poor folk to seek help from those who promised quick riches. They’d be lured into believing a weed would cure boils or a toad would turn them into a prince. Those who had luck with their spell or incantation did more than just seek men or women who practiced magic—they wanted the power for themselves. They became immersed in Wicca and turned their backs on religion.