First Debt (Indebted #2)(21)

“Did I say you could ask questions?” Moving smoothly, he stepped away. Roaming sleek and sharp around the room, he gathered mismatched clothes that were draped on chairs and a sixteenth-century dressing table then came back toward me. Dumping them at the end of the bed, he said, “Get dressed. I’m going to count to ten. If you aren’t decent, I don’t care. I’m dragging you out of here naked or clothed—it’s entirely your choice.”

I wrinkled my nose at the attire. I had more of an understanding about my enemy, but I still feared him. I didn’t want to go anywhere. I didn’t want to be commanded or dragged—

“One.” His eyes glittered.

He couldn’t be serious.

“Two…”

Quickly, I reached for a peach t-shirt with Victorian lace on the collar and denim shorts.

“Three.”

Shit, how could I get dressed with him standing there? I couldn’t strip so blatantly.

He’s seen you naked. You ran through a forest with nothing on. He’s tasted you, for God’s sake. Seriously, why are you suddenly precious about it?

“Four.”

Biting my lip, welcoming my rational common sense, I hastily tore off the camisole and let it flutter through the air.

Jethro sucked in a breath at my exposed breasts. “Five.”

Tugging the t-shirt over my head, I dropped my hands to my hips.

“Six.”

Locking eyes with him, I shimmied out of the shorts, letting them puddle around my ankles. I had no underwear on.

I searched for the lust that’d burned in his gaze a few nights ago. I sought to witness just a hint of the Jethro who’d wrapped his fingers in my hair and driven his cock down my throat.

He merely cocked an eyebrow at my naked * and continued to count. “Seven.”

Anger siphoned through my heart. Stepping into the shorts, I snatched them up and fastened the zipper.

“Eight.”

Remembering Jethro’s tendency to use my long hair as handle bars and worse, as a leash, I quickly smoothed the black thickness into a messy ponytail and secured it with a hair tie from my wrist.

“Nine.”

The diamond collar sat around my neck—ridiculously expensive considering my understated outfit, making my breathing a little irregular. Slipping my feet into a pair of sparkly flip-flops on the floor, I was done.

I smirked. “Finished, oh impatient master.”

Jethro stiffened. “Record speed, Ms. Weaver. I’m impressed.” He held out his hand. “Give me your phone.”

I blanched. “What? No!”

He leaned closer, his temper shimmering just beneath the surface of his cool exterior. “Yes. I won’t ask again.”

For a second, I wondered if I could hit him over the head and run. So many scenarios of running had entertained me these past few days. I’d tried to pry the diamond collar off. I’d tried to open the window. I’d tried to pick the lock on the door.

But nothing worked. Aside from death, I wasn’t getting out of there.

I’m coming, Threads.

My heart seized at the thought of Vaughn charging in here trying to save me, only to be slaughtered by the men holding me captive. I couldn’t let that happen.

Gritting my teeth, I turned and plucked my phone from the tangled sheets. Reluctantly, I passed it to his awaiting palm.

His fingers curled around the delicate device. “Thank you.”

I couldn’t tear my eyes from it. My only link to the outside world. My only avenue of freedom. I didn’t realize until that moment how much I valued it and how stir-crazy I would go if deprived of the simple things, such as texting Kite.

Admit it, you’re screwing yourself up over him.

The past few days Kite had been…different. The messages from the night before last came back to mind.

Kite007: Have you ever noticed how things you’ve always been told were wrong are the only things that feel right?

Needle&Thread: That’s rather deep coming from the man who only wants to sext and avoid personal subjects.

Kite007: If I said I wanted one night of blatant honesty, no douche-baggery, no bullshit of any kind, what would you say?

Needle&Thread: I’d say you’d completely lost it and wonder if someone with a heart had stolen your phone.

Silence.

I’d been justified in not letting my guard down. After all, I’d tried many times to get him to be a little kinder, more human toward me, but he’d always shot me down. But as ten minutes turned into twenty and still no reply, I’d felt guilty for hurting someone who obviously needed to talk.

Why didn’t he talk to others who knew him? Find solace in friends who would understand? My earlier conviction of him being Kestrel had faded a little after the initial panic attack. Since his vicious remark, asking how I knew about his owning a motorcycle, we’d both skirted the issue as if we were both afraid to pick at that particular wound.

It was best to let it scab over and not spew forth poison that wouldn’t be able to heal.

This blindness—this naivety about our true agendas and names—was strangely hypnotic, and I didn’t want it to change. I didn’t want to let him go yet, and I would have to if I knew the truth.

Needle&Thread: Kite, I’m sorry. No bullshit. No games. One night only to be ourselves and let the stark, painful truth come out. I’m here to listen if you want. If you’ve had second thoughts that’s fine, too. Either way, I hope you have a great night.