Second Debt (Indebted #3)(20)

I stared coldly in his direction. When he’d hugged me before, I’d had the overpowering urge to push him away. To slap him. To scream at him to drop the act and show the truth. If Jethro struggled to hide his true self, then Kestrel was a genius at it.

I had no clue who he was.

The thought that any of these men were on my side or understood what I faced was laughable after seeing my family’s graves. I wanted nothing to do with them.

Not anymore.

Instead of seducing Jethro to make him care enough to free me, I now just wanted him dead. I could see the allure of martyrdom. If I had a bomb, I would willingly strap it to my chest and press the trigger if it meant I could take out these men when I died.

Kes lowered his voice. “I’ve seen the scars on your back. I know the pain you endured from the First Debt. If you can survive that—you can definitely survive this.”

I couldn’t breathe. Not only had they taken everything, but now they wanted to mark my body—yet another reminder of my fate.

When I didn’t respond, Kes tried again. “You don’t have to say anything, just point to where you want the mark then you can go.”

Go? Go where? Home? To the nearest black market and buy a bazooka to destroy them?

Kes moved closer, crowding me so I had a Hawk in every direction. “It won’t hurt. Much.”

Jethro snapped.

Soaring upright, he shoved Kes away and snatched the Tally Box from Daniel. “You’re f*cking suffocating us. Give us some space, for Christ’s sake.”

My heart twitched.

Jethro’s temper was lethal, his position in the family high up the ranking pole, but the passion underlying his command sounded suspiciously like he’d picked my side over them.

I should’ve been overjoyed.

I should’ve done everything in my power to thank Jethro and encourage him to fall for me.

But I had nothing left but hate.

Kes chuckled. “Don’t worry, Jet. Just trying to make it easier on Nila.” He planted his hand on Jethro’s shoulder, squeezing tight.

I expected Jethro to shrug him off and punch him. Instead, he relaxed slightly, nodding as silent communication ran between the brothers.

What the hell does Kes know about Jethro? And how does he use it so effortlessly to keep his brother calm?

Daniel stole my hand, running a sharp fingernail along the centre of my palm. I jumped, gasping in pain and surprise. I yanked my hand back, trying to dislodge the crazy creep.

No way did I want him infecting me.

A hand was the one part of a person’s body that touched so much. The first point of contact for new experiences. A five-fingered tool to get through life.

“Stop touching me.”

Jethro slapped his brother’s hand aside, allowing me to tuck my palm between my legs.

Cut growled, “Stop chitchatting and get it done. You have five seconds to decide where the tally will go, Ms. Weaver. Otherwise, I shall decide for you.”

Jethro sucked in a harsh breath, watching me from the corner of his eye.

Your fingers.

What? I shook my head at the idea. It was a stupid place for a tattoo.

It makes sense.

My reasoning laid out my conclusion in crystal clarity.

I intend to use my hands to slaughter them in the future.

If my fingers wore their mark—bore the signs of pain extracted at their whim—it was only fair that they extracted pain in return. My hands were currently virgins in murder, but soon they would smother in their blood.

It’s only fitting to wear their tally while I steal their lives.

My eyes fell on Jethro.

Even him?

I steeled my heart against whatever desire existed between us.

Even him.

Sitting straight, I announced, “My fingertips.”

Jethro scowled. “Out of anywhere on your body, that’s where you’ve chosen?”

I nodded. “Yes.” I spread my hands, silently cursing the shake in them. “One fingertip per debt.”

I just hope there aren’t more than ten to repay.

Daniel smirked again. “Not a place I would’ve chosen, but it does leave your body open for more marks in the future.”

I narrowed my eyes.

“Put your hand on my leg, palm up.”

“I’m not touching you.”

Lightning quick, Daniel snatched my wrist, twisted my arm until my palm was as he requested, and slammed it against his thigh.

“Keep it there,” he ordered.

My skin crawled. I went to pull away, but Cut said quietly, “Do as you’re told, Ms. Weaver.”

Jethro sucked in air, his ire buffeting me. “This isn’t how tradition states.” His head shot up to face his father. “Cut, I should be the one—”

Cut’s features blackened. “There are a number of things you should be doing, Jethro. Yet you don’t do any of them. What makes you so eager to do this one?”

I looked between the men, all the while trying to forget my hand rested on Daniel’s thigh. Apprehension bubbled in my chest as he pressed a button on the side of the tattoo gun. Immediately the machine hummed with life.

Vertigo swirled in my blood at the thought of being permanently marked. I’d never had a tattoo, nor did I want one.

Jethro leaned forward. “This is my right.”