“Shit, Kite. Calm the fuck down. I didn’t do anything we didn’t agree.”
“We agreed you wouldn’t come!”
“We agreed on other things, too.” His eyes narrowed. “Or are you forgetting about those?”
I froze.
He’s right.
I hadn’t honoured past promises, no matter how hard I’d tried.
Looking past me, his attention switched. “Shit, that was fast. How long did it take to kick in?”
Shaking out the pain in my knuckles from punching three of my family members, I glanced at Daniel and Cut on the floor. “It didn’t. I helped them along.”
Kes dragged a hand through his silvering hair. “What the fuck did you do? You know they can’t wake up in the morning and think it didn’t happen. Shit—what was the point in all of this if you couldn’t even let it run its course!”
The room tilted and weaved.
I heaved as my stomach tried to revolt against the booze. “Had no choice. Couldn’t do it anymore.”
Suddenly, I couldn’t look at Kes without reliving what he’d done to my woman. It shredded my skin, turned my muscles into quivering agony. “I can’t—I can’t stay in here with you.”
Kes stomped forward and gripped my shoulders. “You have no choice. It’s not over yet.”
I tensed against his thoughts, preparing myself to flounder in his coital bliss from Nila, but like most times, Kestrel protected me. I picked up on faint frequencies, but he kept the majority hidden behind a calm curtain of nothingness.
I sighed, pushing him away. “Sorry.”
He nodded. “I get it.” Pointing at comatose Cut and Daniel, he added, “Let’s finish up. Then we can call it a night, yeah?”
Swaying on my feet, I moved to lock the door. “You’re right.”
Together, we faced the archives of previous debts and extractions. I pulled up old footage of Emma Weaver. “It’s time to get creative.”
With a solidified bond, we each took a keyboard and began.
Goddammit, I was a monster.
Covering my face, I folded over her bed.
I was so tired.
So fucking drained.
It’s all so fucking hard.
All I wanted was to give in. To tell her the truth and end the lies I’d always lived.
Pulling the tiny bottle from my pocket, I deliberated taking another. The drugs helped me stay sane—they were the only thing that had a power over me—but as much as I appreciated the silence, the numbness from overwhelming intensity, I hated the severance between Nila and me.
She deserved so much more than what I’d given her.
And now she would hate me for eternity.
Clutching the bottle, I cursed the swirling room.
Nila was safe and untouched.
She would remain safe and untouched.
I was done being unhappy and selfish. My sacrifice would keep her safe.
I would trade a lifetime in a straitjacket to give her a long, happy existence.
Those were our futures. And her hating me would only make that separation easier on her.
Sighing, I slid back to the floor and curled up beside her bed.
I would guard her for the rest of my days.
It would be the one good thing I’d done before I died.
Falling to my side, the room spun quicker and quicker.
I closed my eyes and succumbed.
THE WORLD SOLIDIFIED.
I traded treacle-unconsciousness for cumbersome reality. One moment I was off in make-believe land with deformed unicorns and black rainbows, the next, I was awake.
Where am I?
Groggy, heartbroken, stupefied.
I clutched my head, warding off the gentle headache and fuzzy taste on my tongue. I smacked my lips, trying to get rid of the taste. The metallic residue was…familiar.
But where from?
It reminded me of the one and only operation I’d had when I was seventeen to remove my tonsils. I’d been sick for a year with tonsillitis until I’d begged to have them out.
Waking up from the operation had been terrifying. Surrounded by piercing beeps and turned into a pincushion with needles.
Massaging my temples, I forced my brain to work.
What happened last night?
I blinked.
The Weaver quarters pieced together like a storybook—bolts of fabric hanging from the walls, messy table with scissors and chalk, and the grey centrepiece for my collection draped otherworldly on the mannequin.
My eyes flew to the towel discarded on the emerald W embroidered carpet.
Did I get dressed in a hurry?
I followed the trail of fuchsia pink dress draped over the wingback by the fireplace. I frowned at the unwanted lingerie on the foot of the bed.
Then I saw the zipped garment bag.
And everything propelled into me with razor blades.
Poker. Cognac. Blindfolds. Daniel. Cut. Kestrel.
My hands flew to cover my mouth.
Oh, my God. What have I done?
I cringed, reliving the way I’ve softened toward Kes, the way I’d found unwanted pleasure in his arms, then I buckled under my hate for Jethro at leaving me there. He just left!
And Kes stayed and helped and—
He drugged you!
My heart catapulted into a thousand beats.
Oh, God. What did they do?
Panic and horror shook my hands as I shoved the duvet away and looked at my body. I didn’t know what I expected to find—bruises and cuts and obvious marks of rape—but the stark whiteness of a nightdress hid answers.
I have to know.
I had to see, had to come to terms with what foul, disgusting things might’ve been done while I was unconscious.
I need a mirror.
Swinging my legs over the edge of the thick mattress, I leapt.
My feet touched something cool and hard, rather than warm and soft. My balance tripped, my ankle twisted, and I tumbled forward to land on all fours.
A masculine curse filled the space. Something shoved me, turning my fall into a somersault. I cried out, coming to a halt on my back.
Jethro.
The instant my eyes landed on him, the betrayal over the past few days choked my lungs. Those damn drugs. His twisted family. A lifetime of conditioning and a soul thoroughly broken from circumstances I could never understand.
My heart bled for him. But at the same time, I no longer cared.
He’d thrown me to the wolves and left.
He didn’t deserve my compassion or affection or tenderness.
He deserved nothing.
Jethro groaned, but his eyes remained closed. The fumes of alcohol soaked the air around him. His arm flung out, seeking something.
I scrambled out of reach.
He mumbled, his face screwed up and sunken.
What the hell is he doing in here?
I couldn’t stop the crashing waves of dislike, distrust, and utter resentment taking hold.
He flinched, grunting as if in pain.
Climbing to my feet, I darted around the bed and snuggled back into warm sheets. I wanted him gone!
Curling my legs up beneath me, I wrapped the covers tight like a fortress. “Get. Out.” My voice was full of contempt.
Shuffling sounded below, but no reply. A few tense minutes ratcheted my heart rate, before he slowly inclined from lying to sitting. His back rested against my bed as he groaned, grabbing his head. “Fuck.”
He didn’t look up. His long legs bent, the rest of his body wrung out and weary.
The love I’d had for him wanted to comfort, but the repulsion of him leaving me last night made me hunker deeper into my quilt and glower.
Rubbing both hands over his face, he yawned. Every motion was lethargic and reeking of drunkenness.
So he’d left me at the fate of his family to drink last night?
Asshole. Complete and utter asshole.
Looking over his shoulder, he froze.
My breathing ceased. My blood curdled. “Leave.”
The single syllable hung between us like a deflating balloon falling to the carpet.
Jethro swallowed. Pain and intoxication swam in his eyes. Finally, he nodded. Gone was the refined gentleman who hid so much. Gone were the chiselled cheekbones and radiant golden eyes.
The man before me…the man who’d hurt me, crushed me, and still held my heart in his traitorous hands was a mere shadow of himself—not even a shadow—an extinguished, extinct, broken thing.
We stared for a millennium.
Slowly, his lips tilted into a grimace; he bestowed the saddest, sweetest smile and staggered to his feet. “I’m sorry.” With an unsteady wave, he swayed to the door. “Didn’t want you to wake…alone. Wanted to keep you…safe.”
His voice roped around my heart, forcing it to beat and flurry. His steps were terminally empty, staggering toward the exit.
That was it?
No heartfelt plea or fervent explanation?
Just ‘I’m sorry?’
“No, you know what?” I threw the duvet away and hurled myself out of bed. Storming after him, I grabbed his forearm and dug my nails into his flesh. “Sorry isn’t good enough.” Tears exploded into being—a salty river flowing unheeded down my cheeks. “Sorry doesn’t cover what you’ve done to me. Sorry will never be good enough!”
He stood there like a township sacked by pillaging enemies. He didn’t move to shrug me off or argue or explain. He just curled into himself, squeezing his eyes as tight as possible.
I hit him.
“Tell me what they did to me!”
I hit him again.
“Look me in the fucking eye and tell me why you let them do this!”