First Debt (Indebted #2)(45)

The atmosphere changed instantaneously. It switched from abuse and debt payments to fragile and perplexed.

I couldn’t calm my heart or ignore the fiery sting of his cum on my wounds.

Wordlessly, Jethro stepped away. The faint sound of a zipper being refastened was the only sound apart from our tattered breathing.

Awareness slowly came back—I wished it wouldn’t.

Inch by inch, pain on top of pain made itself known. My muscles bellowed; my back hummed like a hundred bee stings. And the questions that bombarded me made nausea swirl with confusion.

Tears stole my vision as everything became too much.

The whipping.

Jethro’s desecration and confession.

It felt as if my skeleton had been ripped into view, hanging bony and stripped bare with every colliding thought on display. The licking flames of whiplashes stole the remainder of my energy.

I buckled, giving up all control to the cuffs.

I didn’t want to cry again.

I didn’t want to seem weak in front of the monster who’d not only hurt me but gotten off on it. He’d been turned on so much, he had to mark me with ownership. Like I was his territory—his possession.

No matter how much I wished I were stronger, I wasn’t. I couldn’t stop the tears rivering from my eyes or the hiccupping sobs building in my chest.

Softly, silently, the winch released, dropping my arms so I only remained standing by leaning against the post.

The buckles on my wrists were removed, cuffs no longer imprisoning.

Jethro’s touch was infinitely gentle and kind.

My legs gave a second warning before they collapsed from beneath me.

I braced myself for the fall. I gritted my teeth against more agony.

But I didn’t tumble to the travertine floor.

I landed in strong arms.

And the only thing that registered was shock.

The arms weren’t cold.

But hot.



I came to being placed gently on my stomach.

Whatever I lay upon was soft as a cloud and smelled just as fresh.

I snuggled deeper into the fluffiness, wishing for oblivion once again, but the agonizing pain from my shredded back wouldn’t let me fade.

My hands balled the sheets beneath me as I struggled to stay still and not squirm.

It hurts. Crap, it hurts.

I would’ve murdered for a painkiller—something to dull the mind-numbing agony.

A cool hand pressed against my naked behind, holding me against the mattress.

My mattress?

Where am I?

I couldn’t tell without raising my eyes. I would have to tense my spine to look, and no way in hell was I moving.

“Stay still,” Jethro ordered, his voice calm but lacking the usual icy edge.

I froze, just waiting for more torture or horrible mind games. I was at my weakest, most vulnerable. I had no defence—mental or physical—if he decided to hurt me more.

His touch drifted over a particularly violent lash mark.

I hissed, biting my lip.

I wanted to moan—to see if vocalizing the agony would help release it. Coupled with the cuts on my feet from running and my bruises from vertigo, I’d never been so banged up.

Vaughn would kill him for this. My brother could never stand to see me hurt.

The bed shifted as Jethro disappeared. Vaguely, the sound of a tap being turned on and the groan of old pipes expanding with water drifted to my ears.

I didn’t know how much time passed; I drifted in and out of pain, wishing I could transplant a pair of wings from the stuffed birds around the room and fly away.

Then the mattress dipped again, my skin crackling with awareness as Jethro hovered beside me.

Something clanked onto the bedside table, smelling sharply of antiseptic.

I flinched, turning my head to see what it was.

At least we have drugs to stop infection. Back in the 1400s they wouldn’t have been so lucky.

Jethro’s fingers landed on my hair, stroking softly. “I’m going to fix you. Don’t move.”

“Fix me?” My voice came out scratching and sore from previous screaming. “You can’t fix me.”

He didn’t reply.

Instead, he dipped a soft white cloth into the bowl of clear brown liquid and wrung it out.

His eyes met mine then locked onto the mess that was my back. The moment he pressed the warm dampness against a cut, I burst into tears. The lashes roared with everlasting brimstone. “Stop! Ah, it hurts.”

His other hand held me down, petting my head as if I would endanger myself further. “I know it hurts, but I have to clean your wounds before I can bandage them.”

My mind twisted, trying to make sense of this. “Why—why are you the one tending to me?”

He took a while to reply, dipping the now hated rag into the disinfectant concoction and once again searing my skin with purgatory.

“Because you’re mine.”

I hated that reason. “I’m not yours.”

His voice came softly. “There are a lot worse things than being mine, Ms. Weaver. Being under my control means I’ll do anything to keep you safe. Keep you from other’s cruelty. Don’t throw my offer in my face without fully realising what I’m giving you.”

His touch dropped lower, gently dabbing my open sores.

My hands fisted the sheet, breathing hard through my nose. My head ached from tensing, and tears leaked unbidden from my eyes.