First Debt (Indebted #2)(40)

My heart hurt for such unfairness, of such unnecessary brutality. It can’t be true. No one could be that horrid. Then again, it happened so long ago. It was still insanity to make me pay for it.

I gritted my teeth, fortifying myself against Jethro’s brainwashing. I couldn’t believe my forefathers were tyrannical employers. There would’ve been rules—even then. Surely?

It’s sad, but it’s also hundreds and hundreds of years ago. Get over it.

I said with half-hearted conviction, “They could’ve left and found other work. They didn’t have to put up with that treatment, even if it was true.”

Jethro laughed coldly. “Seems so simple to you, doesn’t it, Ms. Weaver? Inhumane treatment, so leave.” He glowered. “Not so easy when your ancestor was raping my ancestor’s wife every night, and the mistress of the house had turned every law enforcer in the county against them. She spun such an elegant tale of espionage and thievery; no one would listen to the truth. Everyone believed the Hawks were cold-hearted criminals who were unappreciative of the generosity of the upstanding Weavers.”

Jethro crossed his arms. “Can you believe the Weavers even managed to coerce the police to issue a standing warrant, stating if ever a Hawk stopped working for the Weavers, they would be punished? The law said they’d be thrown into the keep and tortured for their crimes, then murdered as an example to other misbehaving working class.”

My stomach twisted into knots. I wished my hands were untied so I could clamp them over my ears and not listen to Jethro's lies.

This was sick. Terrible. Woefully unjust.

Jethro moved closer, no sound, just like his beloved silence. “Needless to say, they were very unhappy. The wife tried to commit suicide, only for her daughter to find her and the Weavers’ best physician to bring her back from the dead. She couldn’t escape the nightly exploits of the man of the house, and day by day, her children starved from lack of proper care and nutrition.

“So, one day Frank Hawk waited until the Weaver bastard had raped his wife for the second time that night and put her to bed with her ailing offspring. He waited until the house was quiet and everyone rested, before sneaking from the cellar and into the kitchens.”

The image Jethro painted drove needles deep and painful into my heart. I couldn’t think of such horrible people or such a sorry existence. How could my ancestors have done such a thing?

“He should’ve snuck up the stairs and slaughtered his employer while he slept, but his inner fire had been well and truly beaten out after years of abuse. He had no other drive but to stay alive in the hope redemption would save him.

“That night, he only took enough to keep them alive, because no matter their rancid living conditions, he wasn’t ready to die. He wasn’t ready to permit his children to fade away. He was ready to find his self-worth again and fight. To find the rage to commit murder. And to do that, he needed strength.

“Tiptoeing back to the basement, he and his family had their first good meal in years. Scotch eggs, crusty bread, and anything else he managed to pillage.” Jethro smiled, before continuing, “Of course, their meal didn’t go unnoticed.”

I gulped, completely wrapped up in his tale.

“The next day, the cook announced someone had been in her kitchen and stole. Mr. Weaver immediately turfed my family from their beds, finding evidence of misdeeds in the way of crumbs and hastily devoured food. He announced a crime had been committed; therefore, punishment must be paid.

“He dragged Frank Hawk to the village square where he strung him up on the whipping post and left him to hang by his wrists for a day and a night in the dead of winter.” Jethro’s hands suddenly clasped mine, straining above me to thread his fingers through my digits—his touch cold and threatening.

I shivered, biting my cheek.

His lips brushed against my ear as his cock twitched against my lower back. “Do you know what they did to thieves back in the 1400s, Ms. Weaver?”

I closed my eyes, bile scalding my throat.

Yes, I knew. The methods of law enforcement were a hot subject at school. The Tower of London had extreme inventions for dishing out pain to those who didn’t deserve it.

“Yes,” I breathed.

Jethro tugged my fingers. “Care to share?”

Swallowing, I whispered, “The usual punishment for stealing was hands being cut off, ears nailed to spikes, flogging…all manner of beastly things.”

My fingers ached beneath his as he squeezed hard.

Then he stepped back, letting me go. “Can you empathize with my ancestor? Can you tap into the panic he must’ve felt to lose a hand or other body part?”

I squeezed my eyes, nodding. It would’ve been awful and even worse for the wife as she stood by and watched the love of her life—the same man who had no power to protect her—accept punishment, all for just keeping her alive. A life she probably didn’t even want with rape and destitution as the highlights.

Jethro said, “This is the easiest debt to endure, Ms. Weaver. But back then, it was one of the worst.” Moving behind me again, his fingers fumbled at the hem of my t-shirt. Pulling it from my skin, he tore it in half with one vicious tug. The crack of the material ripping echoed in the octagonal space.

I jerked as humid air kissed my naked spine.

A moan escaped my lips as I finally understood what he would do.