Final Debt (Indebted #6)(19)

No.

Yes.

No!

Oh, my God.

His words were invitations to my destruction, beckoning closer with every word.

My heartbeat thundered harder, feeding the drug into every part of me.

“That’s it. Let go. Forget about the past and future. Think about how good my cock would feel. How delicious it would be for me to f*ck you right here.”

Fuck.

Sex.

Mate.

God…

I squeezed my eyes, swirling down a rabbit hole of fanaticism.

His fingers licked through my hair, blazing with lust and horror. “You want me, Nila. Admit it.”

My soul turned wild, snarling at the power of the drug.

The fire burned brighter.

The stars twinkled faster.

The dancers twirled harder.

The world twisted and turned, rushing quickly then slowing down as the hallucinogenic played havoc with my senses.

I lost track of time.

I lost track of myself.

My mind swam with images of the dark dripping walls of the mine. My hands locked and squeezed, smearing my blood over Jethro's initials, wanting nothing more than to touch myself and orgasm.

I need to come.

I need to f*ck and love and consummate.

I was a black and white painting, an enigma, a shivering contradiction.

I was numb.

I was alive.

I was dead.

I was reborn.

What’s happening to me?

I shook my head, fighting the intensity, refusing to become hypnotised by sex and want and music.

But then hands were grabbing mine, tugging me to my feet.

Cut’s laughter laced around me. Commands to dance consumed me.

I tried to dart away, but the ground rolled like a funhouse. Vertigo latched me in its horrendous arms.

I fell forward. I was caught.

I swayed to the side. I was propped up.

Daniel’s eyes. Cut’s eyes. Laughter. Dangerous promises. Lust and greed and pain.

I couldn’t.

I couldn’t fight it anymore.

My vertigo balanced. My veins sang with drunkenness and I lost everything.

In a circle of sweaty ebony women, I shed my worries, my fears, my hopes. I ceased to be Nila. I stopped being a victim.

The diamonds on my throat increased in weight and warmth, squeezing me tight and drenching me in rainbows from the fire.

I stopped pining for Jethro.

I stopped fearing my future.

I stepped into the magic and danced.





AFRICA.

The witching hour stole the continent as I ran through customs and exploded through the arrival gates. Sir Seretse Khama Airport welcomed me back before spewing me out into the chilly night of Gaborone. I hadn’t been in Botswana for two years, yet it felt as if I’d never left.

I avoided coming here. I couldn’t handle the emotional currents from our workers. I hated feeling their toil and trouble. I hated seeing secrets and shimmers of how unhappy they were.

The last time I’d come, I’d talked to Kes about doing something about it.

He became our official mediator. Behind Cut’s back, he travelled often and built a rapport with the men who’d been in our employment for centuries. In his quintessential style of helping and generosity, he improved the living conditions, gave them higher salaries, safer workplace, and secret bonuses for their plight.

He ensured Cut’s slaves turned into willing employees with health benefits and satisfaction.

Cut didn’t know.

There was so much he didn’t know.

But then again, what Cut didn’t know didn’t hurt him. And it meant our enterprise ran smoother because no ill will and destitution could undermine it.

“Goddammit, where are the f*cking drivers?” I jogged toward the vehicle stand, searching for any sign of hailing a lift.

Taxis were few and lingering opportunists rare at this time of night.

I hadn’t slept in days. My wound had ruptured and my fever grew steadily worse. But I didn’t have time to care. My senses were shredded from the flight and it was all I could do to remain standing.

But Nila was with my father.

Nila was running out of time.

I’m coming.

A single shadow appeared up ahead. Turning my jog into a sprint, I clenched my jaw and approached the scruffy African man. His long hair was braided and his jeans torn in places.

I pointed at his muddy car. “Is that your four-wheel drive?”

The guy glowered, crossing his arms. His black eyes looked me up and down, his muscles priming for a fight.

In Africa, you didn’t approach strangers unless you had a weapon and were prepared to battle. Humanity wasn’t as civilized here, mainly because so much strife kept the country salivating for war.

“What’s it to you, white boy?” His Afrikaans accent heralded memories of playing in the dirt at our mine as a child. Of digging beside workers and chipping unwilling diamonds from ancient rock.

“I’ll pay you two thousand pounds if you’ll drive me where I need to go.”

His territorial anger faded a little, slipping into suspicious hope. “What about I just steal the money and leave you dead on the side of the road?”

I stood to my full height, even though it hurt my side. “You won’t do that.”

The man uncrossed his arms, his fists curling. “Oh, no? Why not?”