Final Debt (Indebted #6)(41)

I rushed, “You shot Jasmine, but Jethro protected her.” My heart raced, doing my best to touch some sort of humanity before it was too late. “I don’t think you wanted to shoot Jethro. You’ve never understood his condition, but you’re proud of how strong he is—how loyal he is to your family. How much he endured to be everything you ever asked him—”

“Shut the f*ck up.” Cut reared backward, wiping his hands on his trouser leg. “You have it all wrong.”

“Enlighten me then. Tell me your secrets. You said you would. You told me I was entitled to know everything.” I couldn’t suck in a proper breath with fear. “I want to know. I have questions. So many, many questions. Tell me the truth of what happened when you claimed my mother. Did you love her? Did you ever feel anything for her to stop from killing her?”

A cold smile spread his lips. “Out of everything, that’s what you want to know? Unpractical, stupidly romantic things?”

I nodded. “Yes. Because those stupidly romantic things will show me if you ever had a soul.”

He chuckled. “Oh, I have a soul, Nila Weaver.”

“Show me.”

“What do you want to know?”

“Everything.”

Keep him talking. Keep stalling.

“Tell me your story, Cut. Before you end this, make me understand.”

Cut didn’t reply. Instead, he strolled over to an empty table lining the wall and stroked a finger in the thick dust. “I can see through your ploys. I know what you’re doing, but it so happens your request falls in line with my intentions.”

A chill sent fearful frost down my spine.

Throwing me a smile, Cut changed his path and headed toward the crudely made wooden door. The only entrance and exit. “Seeing as extracting truth from you is proving tiresome, let’s move onto more exciting things, shall we?”

I couldn’t speak as terror cloaked me.

I’d tried to stall and now Cut had twisted my agenda with his. I had a feeling I would’ve preferred a fist to the jaw every time I lied rather than what he planned now.

Grabbing the door handle, Cut wrenched the entrance wide. Immediately, two men marched in. Men I hadn’t seen before. The whites of their eyes glowed in the darkness of their skin; yellow dirt stained their skin with war paint while their clothes of jeans and dirty t-shirts marked them as workers inside the mine.

“Put it on the table.” Cut sidestepped, moving out of the way as the men pushed a cart across the cave to the mentioned table.

I couldn’t look away as they placed random but terrifying things in place. A rubber mallet. A bucket full to the brim with water. A square shallow container. A ziplock bag with black pouches which I assumed were diamonds. A packet of something with medical jargon on the front, scissors, gauze, and lastly a small stick.

What does all of that mean?

None of it made sense, but my stomach twisted with percolating horror.

Once the workers had emptied their cart, Cut motioned for them to leave. “That will be all for now.” He followed them to the door and locked it behind them.

I hated how similar his gait was to Jethro’s. Powerful, no-nonsense, a masculine stride. As much as I loved the son, I would never care for the father.

Tearing my gaze from Cut, I looked at the cave ceiling. If I died down here, would my soul find its way from the mine and into the heavenly sky? Or would I sink further into the ground toward hell for murdering Daniel?

A droplet splashed into my eyes, leaving its entourage of teardrops above, balancing precariously until finally giving into gravity’s beckons. The occasional splash on the top of my head and the tiny ding as droplets hit plastic ware and containers added another dimension to the cave-crypt.

Cut smiled, coming back toward me. “Before we begin, I think my son has slept long enough. Don’t you?”

My heart hurled itself into my mouth as he stalked toward a large barrel in the corner full of silty water and grabbed a small pail. With liquid sloshing over the sides, he beelined for Jethro. With a savage smile, he tossed it over him.

Jethro burst into life.

His mistreated body lurched as he gasped and choked, shaking in his shackles. His face drenched and dripping, his tinsel hair plastering against his head.

Tears shot to my eyes as his head flopped backward, gulping air as if he’d been drowning forever. His lips parted wide, his eyes squeezed closed as he rallied.

Watching him come back to life was a miraculous thing. To be so close to death, so inert and broken, and be able to wake up astounded me.

The cave echoed with sounds of his crippled gasps. His head lolled to the side, fighting the weight to take in his surroundings. His eyes glowed wild and worried, drinking everything in at once.

I didn’t need to suffer his condition to understand his thoughts. He saw the cave, his father, and then me.

Me bound to a chair with the saddest smile on my lips.

He shattered internally and I heard every smash.

His shoulders flopped further, his soul slipping deeper into a grave. He couldn’t move thanks to the rope, but even if he was free, his weakness at hurting kept him tethered.

“It’s okay…” I murmured, fighting tears. “It’s alright.”

Nothing is alright.

Nothing went to plan.

We never got free.

His own eyes glassed with longing and fury. Apologies and unconditional love blared toward me before slipping into hateful rage at his father. The longer he was conscious, the stronger he became. His back straightened, forcing energy to keep him tall rather than slouched.