Debt Inheritance (Indebted #1)(8)

Because he had no f*cking power.

All it had taken was two sentences and Nila went from his to mine. A thrill ran down my spine, remembering the rush when I’d tapped him on the shoulder. His dark eyes had been cool but welcoming, believing I was a stranger there to congratulate. That all changed when I handed over a black-flocked business card and said, “The time is nigh to pay your debts. Your past has found you, and there will be no peace until she’s ours.”

His eyes went from cool to glinting with horror and rebellion. He knew everything I did. He knew there was only one thing he could do—no matter that it would break his heart.

This was his fate. Her fate. Their fate. It’d been written and understood the moment he’d knocked up his wife.

He knew the consequences, and he also knew the power we controlled. No matter his unwillingness and terror, there was no other course of action.

Without a single word, he’d marched me to his daughter and placed her life in my hands. I hadn’t believed my father when he said it would go so smoothly. After all—none of this made sense. But it had. And it did. And now…it was all on me.

My education had begun a month ago. I’d been told of my upcoming duties, given history lessons of past debt collections. But I was as new to this as her.

We came from generations interlocked in the same untieable way.

Now, it was our turn.

And we would have to learn together.

I glared at my conquest. Letting her hand go, she glided beside me wrapped in darkness. I didn’t need a physical claim on her now that she was outside—alone. Was it trust in her father’s judgement guiding her feet or stupidity?

Either way, I would be the last person she would ever see.





I BREATHED A lungful of crisp Milan air as we left the ornate building where the fashion show was held. For late summer, the temperature danced with chill rather than heat. The night had finally claimed the day. It didn’t get dark until ten p.m., so it was late for me. This time of evening, I would normally be buried under a mound of cotton with a chalk pen and scissors deciding what my next creation would be.

Coldness darted through my blood—not from the cool breeze but from him. The silent, foreboding man walking soundlessly beside me.

Who is he? And why don’t I trust a thing about him?

Studying him in my peripheral vision, he seemed to give off two personas. One, a cordial, well-dressed gentleman who looked as though he’d stepped through a wormhole from some ancient century. And two, an assassin who moved like a dancer only because he’d been taught the art of war and murder from the crib.

No words were spoken. No dalliance or small talk. His silence was strangely welcomed and hated. Welcomed because it meant I could focus on my vertigo and not let stress topple me over, hated because I wanted to know him. I wanted to know why my father had vouched for him and just where the hell he was taking me.

“I don’t believe you,” I said, my voice slicing through the crisp evening like the truth masquerading as a lie.

Even in the gloom, with only street lights for illumination, his eyes were bright and such a light brown they seemed otherworldly. His eyebrow rose, but no other interest showed on his face. “What don’t you believe?” He fanned his arm to the left, indicating for me to travel that way.

My feet behaved, tottering obediently in the black velvet heels, but my brain swam with a sudden gyroscope of vertigo. I focused hard on the diamond glinting on Jethro’s lapel. Find an anchor. Hold on tight. Do this and you’ll be alright. The stupid rhyme echoed in my brain. My brother had made it up when we were eight after I’d broken my arm falling off the bottom step of our porch.

“That you convinced my father that you’re dateable material.” I bunched the front of my skirt, wishing I could’ve changed before traipsing through Milan in a couture dress. “You either bribed him or threatened.”

Just like you’re threatening me with your silence and imposing attributes.

“Threatened….interesting word.” His voice positively purred. Placing his hands into his pockets, he added, “And if I did? What difference does it make? You’re still here—with me—alone. Dangerous, really.”

The footpath decided to roll beneath my suddenly unsure feet. Breathe. Get it together.

Heroines in books were portrayed as quaint and lovable if they were clumsy. I had more bruises and scrapes from falling and slamming into things than I would ever admit, and there was nothing quaint about it. I was a hazard. Especially if I had a pair of wickedly sharp dress scissors in my hands and stood up too fast. Anyone in a two metre radius was in danger if my brain decided to throw me helter-skelter into a wall.

It was also a huge inconvenience when faced with an overbearing stranger who just used the words alone and dangerous.

“Dangerous isn’t a good word,” I muttered, allowing a little physical distance to grow between us.

“Stupid isn’t a good word either, but it’s been echoing in my head.”

I slammed to a halt. “Stupid?”

Jethro glided to a stop, looking so cultured and sharp I had a terrible urge to rip his jacket or ruffle his hair. He was too perfect. Too collected. Too restrained. My heart stuttered. What exactly is he restraining?

“You say I threatened your father as there’s no other explanation as to why you’re standing here with me. I say if you feel that way, then you’re stupid for agreeing. It was you who took my hand, you who followed me from the crowd to empty streets.” Leaning down, his eyes narrowed. “Stupid, Ms. Weaver. Very stupid indeed.”