Final Debt (Indebted #6)(98)

The longer I concentrated on what had to be done, the more I remembered my childhood lessons.

Silence is more terrifying than shouts.

Smoothness is more horrifying than sharp motions.

The key to being feared was to remain calm, collected, and most of all, with a finely balanced decorum where the prey believed they had a chance of redemption, only to take their final breath with hope still glowing in their heart.

He’d taught me that.

My father.

It was thanks to him I’d built a shell around myself and portrayed to the outside world I was strong and unflappable. While internally, I combusted with chaos and calamity.

Fisting the material, I yanked it off. The billow of moth-eaten fabric floated like wings as it settled elegantly on the floor. Dust shot into my lungs, dried leaves flurried in a vortex, and grit stung my eyes. But I didn’t cough or blink.

I couldn’t take my eyes off the implement of my childhood.

The rack.

My fingers shook as I stroked the well-worn wood. The leather buckles stained with my blood. The grooves of my heels as I kicked and kicked and kicked.

“No!”

“Stop your f*cking bitching, Jethro.”

“Dad, stop. I didn’t do anything wrong.”

Cut didn’t listen. “You did do something wrong.” His fingers bruised my ankles as he tightened the buckles. I kicked, doing my best to prevent the thick leather imprisoning me, but it was no use. Just like it’d been no use trying to stop him tying my hands above my head.

This wasn’t the first time I’d been here, nor would it be the last.

But I wished so much I could finally be better so he didn’t have to hurt me.

My ten-year-old heart punched against my ribcage. “I didn’t. I can’t help it. You know I can’t help it.”

Notching the leather one more loop, he patted my knee and walked toward my face. “I know, but that is no excuse.”

I lay horizontally, looking up at my father. His dark hair turned whiter with each year. His leather jacket reeked of long rides and hard excursions.

“Haven’t I been lenient the past few months? I tried to help you with kinder means. But that doesn’t work with you.” His face contorted with affection and disbelief. “Jet, you jumped in front of my gun. What the f*ck were you thinking?”

“You were going to shoot it!”

“Yes, it’s food.”

“No, it’s a deer, and it felt fear.” I squirmed, wishing I could make him understand the agony of hunting, of watching an animal notice the gun, feeling it understand my father’s intentions and the wrecking ball of knowledge it was about to die. Animals were intelligent, beyond wise. They knew. They felt—same as us. “Can’t you feel them, Dad? Can’t you see how scary it is for them?”

“How many times do I need to tell you this, son?” His fingers grabbed my cheeks. “Animals are there for us to eat. We are all disposable and huntable if we don’t fight back. Screw their fear. Screw their panic.” His anger drenched his voice. “You. Are. My. Son. You will block it out. You will not embarrass me.”

Moving toward my head, the distinct thump of his hand hitting the lever sent blood whizzing through my veins. “Okay, I’ll stop. I didn’t mean it. I won’t do it again. I don’t want to be a vegetarian. I’ll hunt. I’ll kill. Just don’t—”

“Too late, Jet. Time for your lesson.”

The lever cranked, the leather tightened, and pain began in earnest.

The memory ended, slamming me into the present. My heart raced as fast as it had back then, making me breathless with panic.

Only a memory.

Why did I come back here? Why didn’t I choose an easier place?

Because this is where it all began. It needs to end here.

Fever drenched my brow as I glared at the rack. I’d lost count how many times I’d been subjected to its binds and stretching agony. Cut would leave me for hours to think about what I’d done, all while my joints popped and cracked.

Until the day he brought Jasmine along to share my lesson, of course.

We’d just been children. Trusting, gullible children.

Motherf*cker.

Spinning, I marched toward my father and grabbed him by the arm. “Even now you look at me as if I’m a disappointment. I feel you, Father. You truly don’t think I’ll have the strength to do this.” Pressing my face close to his, I snarled, “Well, you’re wrong. I’ll do this because of what you did to me. Nila might’ve forgiven you, but I won’t. I can’t. Not until you’ve paid.”

Cut stood taller, rolling his shoulders in my hold. His bound hands couldn’t hurt me, but it didn’t stop him from trying with his voice. “You always were a *, Kite. But if you let me go, I’ll honour the inheritance. On your birthday, I’ll give you what you want. I’ll give you everything.”

I clenched my jaw, shoving my father against the wooden rack. “I don’t want your money.”

He stumbled. “It’s not my money. It’s yours. I was just the safe keeper until you were of age.”

“Bullshit.” I sliced the rope around his wrists—the same rope that’d been wrapped around Nila’s—and shoved him backward.

He grunted as his back slammed into the rack, his clothing smearing the dusty wood. He tried to shove off, but I pushed back. He lost his footing, sprawling over the contraption.