Debt Inheritance (Indebted #1)(24)

The cold was emotionless. The cold was power.

Nila sniffed, striding a few steps away. Her curves were hidden in her new wardrobe of dark purple dress that came to her ankles, and a denim jacket. I hadn’t permitted myself to truly look at her. I wasn’t interested in her body. Only what her screams could deliver. She was skinny. Too skinny. But her black hair was thick and begged to be fisted.

Watching her dress in the parking garage irritated me. Her unsureness came across as coyness. Pulling the dress over her skirt was a reversed striptease. Her shaking fingertips had turned the ice in my blood into a lust I hadn’t felt since I stole my brother’s whore and hurt her.

It wouldn’t take much to snap her petite frame. But despite her breakable body, her eyes gave a different story.

She ran deep.

I didn’t bother caring how deep. But it did tempt in a way I hadn’t expected.

A girl like Nila…well, that wasn’t something to be broken lightly.

Her complexities, subtleties, depths, and secrets.

Each layer begged to be shattered and destroyed.

Only once she stood before me, stripped bare of sanity and dreams, would she be ready.

Ready to pay her final debt.

Nila rubbed her cheek, displacing another silent tear. That single f*cking tear stopped everything, freezing over the unwanted feeling of excitement at what my future held. Her sniffle gave me a layer of obligation rather than anticipation.

I wasn’t going to, but she’s given me no choice. Fuck it.

Moving closer, my hands opened to throttle her—to give her something to truly cry about, but I restrained myself. Just.

She looked up, eyes glassy.

I forced a smile—a half-smile, letting her believe her tears affected me, offering false humanity. I let her believe I had a soul and didn’t punish her for hoping. Hoping I was redeemable.

She bought it. Stupid girl. Allowing me to offer my arm as if it were some sort of consolation and guide her from purgatory into hell.





THE AIRPORT BAR reeked of sad goodbyes and tears. Just like my soul.

I rolled my eyes. I didn’t like the sort of person Jethro made me. Someone who only saw the negative and was ruled by fear. I’m an award winning designer. I’m wealthy in my own right.

The unknown future crushed my heart, but it was the thought of losing myself while it happened that scared me the most.

“I need a drink. I’ll get you one? too,” Jethro muttered.

I spun to face him. Big mistake. I stumbled to the left, cursing the suddenly tilting room. My vertigo wasn’t normally this bad. An episode a day was my norm, not every time I tried to move.

A cold hand grasped my elbow. “That condition you have—it’s really getting on my nerves.”

The floor steadied beneath my feet; I tore my arm from his hold. “Leave me alone then. Get on the plane and let me fall over in peace.”

He shook his head, gold eyes darkening with impatience. “I have a much better idea.”

I looked away, taking in the low square-line sofas, sad plastic plants, and dirty carpeting. This can’t be happening. Everything seemed surreal. I was at the airport with a man who’d threatened the lives of my brother and father. I was about to climb on a plane with him. I was about to disappear.

And probably never be found.

It wasn’t rational. It was completely nonsensical.

Suddenly a drink sounded perfect. Alcohol and vertigo didn’t mix, but damned if I wanted to exist full of grief and horror.

Jethro motioned toward a booth by the window where large spotlights turned the black sea of tarmac into false daylight, casting a warm glow on sleeping jumbo jets ready to depart.

Not giving me a chance to say anything else, or to even relay my preference, he stalked away, beelining for the bar.

Quick. Now.

The moment he had his back to me, I pulled my cell phone from my jacket pocket. He said I could keep it. He said I could talk to anyone I chose. He hadn’t said when—now or when we got to his ‘home’, but I desperately needed Vaughn.

My eyes burned as I unlocked the screen. Hunching over the glowing device, I did as my captor ordered and made my way to the booth.

Typing in the number I knew by heart and practically the only number I ever called, I sucked in a breath.

A wall planted itself in my way.

A cold, unforgiving wall.

My head snapped up. Jethro crossed his arms, anger radiating from every inch. “What are you doing?”

I swallowed hard; my palms grew slippery with nervousness. “You said I could keep my phone. You said—”

“I know what I said. I may not stop you, but you still need permission. I am, after all, in control of your life from now on.” Peering into my eyes, he added, “Don’t make a rash decision you can’t undo, Ms. Weaver.” His English accent clipped my name in an unfamiliar way. He spoke it as if it were dirt. A filthy word contaminating his mouth.

My finger hovered over the call button for my twin. The one man who I could say anything to and he would understand. Summoning what useless power I had, I said, “Please, may I make a phone call? I won’t be stupid. I know what’s on the line.”

Jethro tutted under his breath. “That’s the problem. You don’t know. You think you do. You think all of this is a joke. You’re not grasping the depth of what this means, nor will you until you’ve been educated.”