First Debt (Indebted #2)(71)

I huddled on my lounger, wishing he wasn’t towering above and blotting out the sunshine like the devil incarnate.

If he wanted to berate me for what happened the other night, then so be it, but I wouldn’t take his temper without drawing blood of my own.

But just like Kes had shed his animosity, Jethro managed the same.

His face settled from rage into normalcy. Bowing, he held out his hand. “Come. There’s something I’ve been meaning to show you.”



My jaw dropped to the floor.

I’d never seen anything so spectacular and perfect and inviting in my entire life.

Is this real? Or am I in a dream?

“What—what is this place?”

Is this what Kestrel meant when he said Jethro had something to show me?

Jethro placed his hand on the small of my back, pushing me forward. The double doors behind him closed. Leaning against them, he never took his eyes from my wonder-filled face.

“It’s yours. Your quarters. Your real quarters.”

“I—I don’t understand.”

He chuckled softly. “The buzzard room was a stupid idea I had to keep you in line. I’ve grown up a little since then.”

I had so much to ask, but all I could do was drift forward in awe.

The room was huge, completely open plan with arched walkways leading to a sitting room, dressing room, bathroom complete with huge shower and claw-foot bathtub, and a bedroom that looked straight from a Persian souk. Acres of divine beaded material hung in heavy swathes from the teak four-poster bed.

But it was the room we stood in that fascinated me.

It was better than any haberdashery I’d been in.

Far exceeding any priceless material market I’d travelled to with my father and brother on expeditions to find exclusive textiles.

The walls were decorated with floor-to-ceiling racks. Bolts and bolts of every colour fabric imaginable hung enticing and new. Ribbon spools, lace sheaves, threads of every style and width rested on huge tables groaning with scissors, needles, chalk pens, and tape measures.

In the centre of the room stood three sizable busts, two full-size models to design the perfect dress on, and a skylight above, which drenched the space in natural light.

Comfy couches, love-seats, and velour stylish chairs were scattered beside bookcases full of histories of fashion; there was even a fish tank in the corner with tropical fish glowing in pristine turquoise water.

My fingers ached to touch everything at once.

Then my eyes dropped to the carpet.

Deep emerald richness glowed with elegance and the repeating design of W.

“This is the Weaver quarters. They’re only shown and offered when the current Weaver fully understands her place.”

I couldn’t stop my smirk, turning to stare at him. “I haven’t learned my place.”

His face remained locked of emotion. “No, you haven’t. And my father won’t be happy that I’m giving you this so soon, but…things changed.”

My heart sprung into an irregular beat, waiting for him to continue.

But he didn’t.

Moving through the room, he stood out in his black shirt and grey slacks like a spot of ink or a stain on such pretty fabric. He didn’t belong.

I followed him. Finally seeing what I should’ve seen all along.

He doesn’t belong in these rooms.

He doesn’t belong in this house.

He doesn’t belong with this family.

Everything I knew about Jethro was wrong. And despite his task and our fates that were horribly entwined and shadowed with death, I wanted to know him.

Following him through the space, I slammed to a stop as he spun to face me.

His face twisted. “I don’t want to talk. I don’t want to discuss what’s happening or even try to f*cking understand it.”

My stomach flipped over at the lust glowing in his gaze. “Okay…”

Closing the distance between us in one large stride, he captured my cheeks, holding me firm. “I want to f*ck you again. So f*cking much.”

I couldn’t breathe.

“You’re asking my permission?” I whispered.

His face contorted. “No, I’m not asking for your damn permission.”

“Then…just do it.”

The air solidified and for a second, I thought he’d throw me away and storm off.

But then his fingers dug into my cheeks and his mouth crashed against mine.





WHAT THE FUCK am I doing?

I’d spent the past week working for my father, having sessions with my sister, and running the latest diamond shipment—not to mention the frantic hour I’d had after f*cking her and sneaking into the security room to destroy the camera footage.

I was playing with f*cking fire. And instead of getting burned and becoming a puddle of melted ice water, I was stronger, better, firmer in my convictions than I’d been in…well, forever.

I didn’t understand how the direct contradiction to my world could improve me rather than destroy me.

I knew I should question it—find answers rather than keep going down a path I didn’t understand, but how could I stop when Nila was at the end, beckoning with a corrupting smile, spreading her legs in wanton invitation?

I wasn’t a monster, but I wasn’t a f*cking saint either.