Second Debt (Indebted #3)(37)

The umpire spun his speech while everyone nodded but didn’t listen. We all focused on the hard white ball in his hand.

The moment the ball hit the turf, it would be on.

The horses jostled and pawed, tasting imminent war.

After the umpire had finished his spiel, the other two members of our team came forward. In a close circle, we slapped mallets in a final hurrah before kick-off.

“I got your back,” Kes said, his eyes glowing beneath the shadow of his helmet. His matching waistcoat held the number four. His role was to protect the leader, stop others from scoring, and had no restrictions on where he could go on the field.

I nodded, tugging at my cuffs and curling my gloved fingers firmly around my mallet. “First play is offensive. Steal the ball on the throw-in and slam this chukker so we can crush their hopes.”

I wore the number three on our team. My role was tactical leader and the best player—it wasn’t ego, just simple fact.

My teammates nodded and touched their visors in acknowledgement.

Excitement bubbled in my chest. It was such a foreign elusive emotion that I quickly became drunk on it.

Trotting to our places, I smiled at Kes, “Ready, brother?” Out here there were no his or mine. No firstborn bullshit. No diamond smuggling or family legacy.

Just speed and accuracy.

Kes smirked. “Ready to whoop your ass.”

“We’re on the same team, moron.”

He laughed. “On here we are, but we both know we can still lose even when on the same side.”

Wasn’t that the God-awful truth?

We were flesh and blood. By right, we should have each other’s back—yet we’d been bred to compete against one another. If I were suddenly to ‘disappear or have an accident’, Kes would take my place and rule.

Not because he wanted it—he already knew I would give him more than our father ever did—but because he was the substitute.

Born as a plan B.

At least there had been some planning in his conception. Daniel, however, was the accident. Not required and definitely not wanted.

Kes held up his mallet. I did the same and we swatted a salute. “Let the best man win.”

I nodded. “Best man.”

Two minutes later the bugle sounded, the ball flew, and the world ceased to exist as I threw myself into the match.





I’D LIVED A life of privileged upbringing.

I’d been pampered and spoiled; lavished with praise when I followed my father’s wishes and began sewing at barely ten-years-old.

Vaughn and I lived a life of decadence and culture.

Theatre productions, pottery classes, language and disposition tutors—even fencing lessons.

Thanks to my upbringing, I had talents I would never use, and a brain cluttered with useless education.

I’d always felt as if I’d been born into the elite. Despite working twelve-hour days and toiling in workshops, I didn’t begrudge our family’s business from absorbing my life and turning me into yet another cog in the Weaver Empire.

I was rewarded handsomely, earned pleasure from seeing something grow, and never wanted a different life.

However, there were a few times when I our wealth made me self-conscious. I found it hard to make genuine friends at school. Stipulations came with any connection, and I became the girl invited to a sleep-over or party, only because I came with a credit card that brought unlimited pizza and drinks.

It was yet another reason why I’d gravitated toward my twin. V had the same problem. He’d been crushed when he fell for a girl, only for her to break it off the moment he bought her the necklace she’d been begging for.

We were both hurt by others and became sheltered because of it. Money was supposed to make life easy but it was more of a curse than a blessing. And I’d never felt it so acutely as I stood on the side-lines of the polo match and watched the man who owned me galloping up and down.

Jethro looked…free.

For the first time since I’d met him, he looked…happy.

His face was blank of all responsibility.

His body liquid and graceful.

His eyes warm and golden as he leant over the withers of his horse and whacked the ball so hard it skidded like a comet down the field.

Out there he escaped everything he lived with and the hatred I felt toward him—the disgust and despair at finding my family buried on the moor—softened.

I couldn’t hate someone who lived in the same cage as I did. I couldn’t hate someone for being a simple tool for his father. And I definitely couldn’t hate someone who spent his whole life looking for a way out.

Before, when we’d arrived, and sunlight had streamed in as the ramp of the truck opened, I’d suffered a relentless need to run. People and open spaces and cars all waited to help me flee from the Hawks. It would be so easy—wouldn’t it? To somehow escape the attention of my guards and dart to a bystander with tales of ludicrous debts and inhumane treatment.

I could be saved.

I could go home.

But I’d paused and asked questions that I doubted I would ever find answers to. Why did my mother, grandmother, and great-grandmother stay? Surely, they would’ve found opportunities such as this and escaped?

I knew the reasons for my procrastination: I wanted to be the last Weaver taken. But my ancestors…what was their reasoning? Did they perhaps share the same goal I did—did they believe they could change their fate or murder the Hawks instead?