Second Debt (Indebted 3)

Skinning an animal while it’s still alive?

Hurting another one of the club whores?

Cut’s smile sent shivers down my back. “You’ll see.”

I hated when he did this. I never knew if he was walking me out like a horse to be shot or if he genuinely wanted to prove to himself and to me that I was getting better.

For a few years, I’d been good. I’d found how to hide myself in blizzards and snow and be everything he wanted me to be.

That was before he informed me that Nila was my twenty-ninth birthday present. There’d been no cake that year—no threat of cyanide.

Only the detonation of my soul in the form of a woman I couldn’t deny.

Forcing a smile, I asked, “What about some father and son time? Forget the test. Let’s go for a ride. Talk business.”

Over the years, he’d schooled me on the running of the empire. Those sessions were the only time he relaxed and enjoyed interacting with me. Although, he wasn’t ready to give up his power—I could tell. Regardless that our customs stated it would be mine soon, I knew it wouldn’t be a simple matter of handing over the throne.

“No. I have a much better idea.” Cut opened the door wider. “Come on. Let’s go.”

My knees locked. Something inside told me to refuse. This test would be worse than everything I’d been subjected to.

“Perhaps another time. I have to—”

Go find Nila and indulge in what she feels for me.

What would Jasmine say if she knew I’d achieved the impossible? Nila Weaver liked me…possibly even loved me.

My stomach tangled with my heart. I’d managed to stay away for six days, but I’d reached my limit. I needed to feel her fight, her goodness, her wet hot heat. I needed to forget about my fucked-up existence and live in hers, if only for a moment.

Cut waved his hand. “No. This supersedes whatever you were about to do.” Snapping his fingers—a trait I’d adopted—he growled, “Come along. It won’t take long.”

Hiding my nervousness behind the glacial façade I still managed to invoke around my father, I followed him from my wing.

Wordlessly, we moved through the house. Every step flared the pain in my feet, giving me something to focus on rather than my whirling imagination of what was to come.

The nights were getting longer, encroaching on the sunlight day by day—only seven p.m., yet it was already dusk.

I swallowed my questions as Cut moved purposely out the back door and toward the maintenance barn at the rear of the estate. Most people had a shack that housed a broken lawnmower and a few empty flowerpots.

Not us.

Our shack was the size of a three-bedroom house, resting like a black beetle on the immaculate lawn.

The air temperature bit into my exposed arms as we stalked over the short expanse of grass and disappeared into the musty metallic world of saw-dust shavings and ancient tools.

Along with servants to ensure our daily needs were met, we also had carpenters, electricians, roofers, gardeners, and gamekeepers. Running an estate such as Hawksridge took millions of pounds per year.

The minute we entered, two carpenters who were lathing a chair leg turned off the machine and subtly left the room. Dusk on a Sunday and still the staff worked—our insistence for perfection ran a brutal timeline.

“Good evening, Mr. Hawk,” one worker mumbled on his way out. His eyes remained downcast with respect, his shoulders hunched.

Cut wielded a power that made lesser men—including myself—want to run and hide.

When I was in charge, I would change that. I would change many things.

Cut moved deeper into the workshop, peering into the other rooms where paintings waited for restoration. Only once he was sure we were alone did he turn to me to follow.

With unease building in my gut, I did as ordered and moved into the back room where knick-knacks and miscellaneous childhood toys had been dumped.

“What is it that you wanted to discuss?” I asked, standing still in the centre of chaos. Deliberately, I pushed my heel harder against the ground, activating a deeper throb from the new cut. It wasn’t that I liked pain. In fact, I hated the stigma and weakness of cutting myself. I didn’t get pleasure from it—but I did get relief from my disease by being single-minded and focused.

Cut shrugged out of his leather jacket, placing the embroidered Black Diamond apparel on Jasmine’s old nursery cot. His hair was unruly and grey, his jawline sharp and unforgiving.

“Show, not discuss.” With a secretive smile, he moved to the large termite-riddled cupboard at the back of the room. He removed an old brass key from his pocket and inserted it into the lock.

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.