First Debt (Indebted #2)(51)

It was scary to have that part of my identity taken away but refreshing and almost medicinal, too.

Bizarre to say, the same men who’d licked me had somehow become my…friends. I didn’t know how, but I did know I healed faster because of their friendship and found sanctuary for my heart.

Just like Kestrel had said I would.

Just like Cut had said I’d be welcomed into his house. I should’ve been colder, less easy to win over, but I was tired of overthinking everything and peering around corners for the next trick.

There was only so much fear a person could live with before the brain gave up and accepted.

The days stretched unnervingly…normal. If I wasn’t in Kes’s saloon, I was wandering down pristine corridors full of priceless artwork and tapestries. I strolled in gardens surrounded by manicured hedges and even took a nap beneath the dappling leaves of an apple tree in the orchard.

Not one person stopped me from entering a room or leaving. Not one person raised their voice or gave me any reason to fear.

If I bumped into a man dressed in leather and stomping in fierce-looking boots, he would smile and ask after my health. If I bumped into Cut heading to a meeting, he would bow and smile cordially, continuing on his way as if I had total right to be sneaking about his home.

The only person I didn’t bump into was Jethro.

It was as if he’d disappeared, and with his disappearance went my torment.

I began to wonder if I’d been forgotten.

Not forgotten.

Just forgiven…

They’ll never forgive.

I had to admit the Hawks were diabolically clever. With their welcome came a relaxation I would never have found if I wasn’t permitted to explore on my own. A self-centred acceptance that only came from settling into a new environment with no duress.

I truly felt a part of their household. As sick and as twisted as it seemed.

By the end of fourteen days, with nothing to keep me occupied but reading and exploring, inevitably, my mind turned to what it had always known.

Sewing.

Not designing under pressure or rushing to deliver the next big thing.

Just sewing.

The epicentre of my craft.

I commandeered a writing pad, thanks to interrupting a business meeting. I’d walked in to an office by accident, only to be offered freshly grilled sausages and beer by three Diamond brothers. Their food had been the basics of cuisine, yet they ate it around a fifteenth-century table in a room full of priceless ledgers and power.

The lined paper only lasted me a day before I hunted Kes down and requested a sketchpad with no lines. The moment he’d given me one, I couldn’t stop the drive to draw, to pluck the rapidly forming ensembles from my mind and transcribe to paper.

That evening, Kes had four additional sketchpads delivered to my room.

I found the passion I’d lost with overworking and stress. Enjoyment and creativity came back with a vengeance. My hands turned black with lead from sketching well into the night. The pages became littered with rainbows and the barbaric sensuality of diamonds. I embraced a carnal wardrobe of want and inhibitions, creating my most daring collection to date, pulling ideas from my imagination like silver threads, splashing them onto the paper thanks to my trusty pencil.

When my mind was blank of artistic drive, I would turn to the large volume of Weaver history and read my ancestors’ scattered thoughts and notations. I wasn’t gullible enough to write things of importance—the Hawks would only read it. A diary was the window into someone’s soul, and I had no intention of them seeing into mine.

But I did scribble two questions.

Where the hell is Jethro?

What weapons are best used against ice? A chisel or a candle?

It was on the sixteenth night of being Jethro-free that I stumbled upon the official library. Drifting down dark corridors, unable to sleep, I felt as if I’d fallen through a wormhole into ancient literature and knowledge. The ceiling was a dome, painted with a navy sky and glittering yellow stars. The walls were three stories high with swirling ladders leading onto brass walkways to peruse each shelf with ease.

The moment I walked into the hushed world, I knew I’d found home.

That night, I’d spent hours reading by low light, fingering leather-bound limited editions, before curling up in the most comfy of beanbags and falling asleep.

Kes found me the next morning, nudging me awake with an amused grin. “Hi.” He threw himself into the chaise lounge that was decorated with bamboo leaves, cranes, and Chinese symbols, not far from my commandeered beanbag.

I sat up, rubbing sleep from my eyes and stretching my stiff but mostly healed back. “How did you find me?”

Kes pointed upward, smiling. “Cameras.”

My heart leapt into my throat. “Of course.” That was why I was given free reign. Why no one tried to stop me. Everything I did was on show.

I was stupid not to realize it sooner.

I frowned. Was that what Jethro had switched off after he’d whipped me? Did he not wish his family to see him come all over my back—to show he had a weakness for me?

And if so…why didn’t he want his family to see? He was only doing what he was told…wasn’t he?

The past two weeks had delivered far too many questions where Jethro was concerned, and I still had no answers.

I did have one scary conclusion, though. As much as I detested Jethro’s mind games and sick control…I missed the spark he conjured inside. I missed the clench when he touched me, and I craved the addictive fear of duelling.