Final Debt (Indebted #6)(17)

Nervousness exploded in time to the tribal drum as he led me through the dancing throng and pushed me onto a grass mat at the head of the bonfire. My wrists burned in their twine, sore and achy.

The entire time we’d been in the mine, he hadn’t released me. What did he think I’d do? Grab a pick-axe and hack away at his head? Run and dig myself to safety?

The texture of the woven mat beneath my toes told me this tribe were weavers, too. It took great skill to create items from plant life and not cloth or silk.

Cut sat beside me on a raised platform decorated with ostrich feather and lion skin. He didn’t look at me, just wrapped the rope tethering me in his fist and smiled as the women danced harder, faster, wilder.

I didn’t want to be distracted. I didn’t want to fall under the spell of magical music and sensual swaying, but the longer we sat there, the more enthralled I became. I’d only seen this culture on documentaries and television. I’d travelled to Asia with V and Tex to gather diamantes and fabrics, but I’d never been on this continent.

My horizons were so small compared to what the world had to offer.

Sitting there at the feet of my murderer, watching his employees dance and welcome, highlighted just how much my life lacked. I’d let work dictate and rob me of living.

If only Jethro was here.

His handsome face popped into my mind. I wanted to run my fingers over his five o’ clock shadow. I wanted to kiss his thick, black eyelashes. I wanted to kiss him, forgive him; pretend the world was a better place.

The more the music trickled into me, the more my body reacted. Sensual need replaced the damp panic of the mine, making my nipples ache at the thought of Jethro touching me.

My body grew twisty and excited, cursing the distance between us and the circumstances I was in.

My eyes smarted as smoke from the fire cast us in sooty clouds. The rhythmical footsteps and infectious freedom of the melody slowly replaced my blood.

There was something erotic about the dance. Something slinked nonverbally, speaking of connection and lust and love and forever togetherness. Bodily communication superseded that of spoken languages.

My heart throbbed with lovesickness. I missed him. I wanted him. I needed to see him one last time and tell him how much he meant to me.

I love you, Jethro…Kite.

Cut hadn’t lied when he said superstitions had to be acknowledged. Over the course of three songs, the local tribe welcomed their boss with handmade gifts of beads and pottery, delivered food of roasted meat and fruits, and danced numerous numbers.

At one point in the ceremony, a woman with bare breasts and white paint smeared on her throat and chest reverently placed a flower headband on Cut’s head.

He nodded with airs and graces, smiling indulgently as the woman merged back with her tribesman.

My skin prickled, a sixth sense saying I was watched.

Squinting past the brightness and sting of the fire, I searched for the owner’s gaze.

Buzzard.

Daniel lurked on the outskirts of the fire, his eyes not on the half-naked women but on me. His lips parted, gaze undressing me, raping me from afar. In his hand rested a crudely made cup, no doubt holding liquor.

One song turned into a mecca of soulful salvation. A young girl broke away from the dancing women, moving forward with a small bowl and a blade.

I sucked in a breath as she looked at Cut and pointed at me with the knife.

A knife?

Why the hell does she have a knife?

Cut nodded, tugging my leash. I tried to fight it, but it was no use. Effortlessly, he forced me to present my tied hands.

My lungs seized as the girl bowed at my feet, placing the bowl on the dirt. Unfurling my palms, she kissed each finger, murmuring a chant that sent spiders scurrying down my spine.

I tried to tug away, but Cut held me firm.

“Wait—”

The girl flashed her blade.

I gritted my teeth. “No—”

Before I could stop her, she sliced the flesh of my palm and held the bleeding cut over the bowl.

Ow!

Pain instantly lashed over the wound, stinging and raw. Blood welled, dripping thickly into the girl’s collection.

“Why did you do that?” My voice bordered on rage and curiosity. My hand begged to curl over the wound and protect it.

The girl didn’t reply; she merely waited until a small crimson puddle rested in the bowl before letting me go.

The music turned to a fever, the men pounding their drums, the women kicking their heels. The little girl returned with her bloody prize, dancing and howling at the moon as voices rose in an ancient euphony.

My entire body was on fire.

My blood flowing fast.

My skin flushing bright.

My fear twisted into intoxication.

I wanted to join them. To become wild.

My wound was forgotten. My predicament and future peril ignored.

The moment the girl took my blood, I’d become more than just an outcast in this foreign land, I’d become one of them.

Cut sucked in a breath, something odd and not entirely unwelcome throbbing between us. He tore his gaze from mine as the girl finished her pirouette and with a squeal the bowl landed in the fire, shattering against hot coals, hissing with burning blood. A potent smell laced the air as the dance turned crazed, choreographed by gravity-defying shamans.

To be somewhere where life wasn’t about TV or work-stress or mundane normalness—to see people having fun and partying—intoxicated me better than any experience.