Debt Inheritance (Indebted #1)(31)

“You’re too skinny. I prefer women with more…assets than you,” he whispered, cupping my other small breast. “However, your tiny stature might prove to be a blessing with some of the things I have planned.” He pinched me again, turning my nipple like a corkscrew.

I flinched, forehead furrowing against the pain.

He chuckled. “I knew it was wearing off.” His touch turned from painful to excruciating. I bit my lip, barely holding back a cry.

“Just in time.” Letting my breast go, he captured my hand, linking his icy fingers through mine. There was nothing romantic or caring about Jethro holding my hand—it was a pure reminder that I had no chance in hell of getting free.

Vaughn. Tex.

I wanted so badly to talk to them. To beg for rescue. But I could no longer be the woman I’d been. I couldn’t be the workaholic who blamed others for my unhappiness. I’d accepted my father’s old-fashioned law about not being permitted to date, because in all honesty, I wasn’t ready. I would never be ready. Because meeting someone meant the possibility of falling in love. Which meant the worst pain imaginable when they left.

If anything, Jethro had done me a favour. I never wanted male company again. If I could return to my sewing machines with no other companionship but my twin, I’d be happy, eternally grateful, and would live the rest of my life in peace.

Tugging my hand into his lap, Jethro murmured, “I meant what I said on the plane. Play your part and you’ll live to see another sunrise.”

Something snapped inside as if the drug suddenly gave up its hold on me, along with everything I’d been trying to avoid. The tears, the fears, the constant worrying of what was to come.

It all disappeared.

I couldn’t afford to drain my energy with useless wonderings. Jethro said I could work. I intended to drown myself in fabric and continue designing my next runway show. I would pretend my world hadn’t become a monster-filled nightmare, and lock my mind in a place where it was safe. Mundane was safe. Routine was safe.

I would create a sewing room deep in my soul and ensure no one—including the numerous activities Jethro had planned—could ever ruin me.

And talk to Kite.

My heart thumped. He wasn’t kind or a sympathetic ear to cry to. But I was glad. I didn’t want someone to pat my back and make me feel worse with commiseration. I needed someone to tell me to buck up, keep going, and never wallow in darkness.

Kite didn’t know it yet, but I planned to use him as my barometer of liveliness. If I could muster up the energy to flirt and chat and pretend everything was okay, I had the strength to continue. The moment I used him as an outlet to purge whatever Jethro did to me, I would know I needed to re-centre myself and dig deeper to stay true.

Jethro let my hand go, tossing it away almost violently.

I breathed a sigh of relief, then stiffened as his fingers latched around my upper thigh.

Whispering harshly, he said, “Keep watching the horizon, Ms. Weaver. You’re about to see your new home.” His hand crept up my leg, following the same path his brother had—freezing my exposed skin with his icicle-like fingers. “Don’t take your eyes off the windscreen. You behave and I’ll make sure you have somewhere warm to sleep tonight. You disappoint me and you’ll sleep with the dogs.”

I bit my lip, eyes flaring wide.

Sleep in a kennel? Shit, Nila. You couldn’t be any more stupid.

All this time I’d braced myself for sexual payments—bodily taxes and unwanted attention—but in reality I hadn’t stopped to think about the bare essentials of living. There was so much more Jethro could do to me than torment my body.

He could deprive me of nutrition.

He could prevent me from sleeping.

He could make me live in squalor and suffer illness after illness.

Daniel stayed facing the front, ignoring us. I risked my first question since the airport bar.

“You aren’t just going to use me. Are you?” My voice sounded strange after not speaking for so long.

Jethro stilled, his fingers twitching on my inner thigh. “So na?ve. You’re worse than a pet. You’re like a child. A loveless girl who knows nothing of the big, bad world.” Breathing shallow, his hand moved higher and higher. “Pity I’m not turned on by little girls. Pity you don’t get me hard, my loveless, clueless Weaver. Then you might’ve been prisoner in my bed.”

In front of us, the car’s headlights illuminated a driveway. The woodland stopped, giving way from thicket to a huge expanse of manicured lawn and a large oval fountain. Birds of prey replaced angels and fair maidens, their talons dancing on top of water spray.

Jethro’s hand burned, never stopping his slow assault. My heart jack-knifed, pain shooting in my chest as panic replaced my blood. I’d wanted sexual contact for so long but not like this. Not taken. Not even wanted.

The car slowed, skirting around the fountain. We turned left, following the sweeping driveway.

And that was when I saw it.

The monstrosity that was my so-called new home.

The rising monolithic, French turreted, tower fortified, sweeping, soaring mansion. Tarmac turned to gravel beneath the tyres, pinging against the metal panels below. Jethro’s fingers crept higher, demanding I pay attention to everything he did.

“Welcome to Hawksridge Hall, Ms. Weaver. It’s going to be a pleasure entertaining you as my guest.” The sentence wrapped around me like a noose; my eyes snapped closed as his fingers brushed my core. Firm, unyielding, he cupped me through my knickers, sending snow to my womb with his vile fingers.