Second Debt (Indebted #3)(47)

Wordlessly, we moved through the house. Every step flared the pain in my feet, giving me something to focus on rather than my whirling imagination of what was to come.

The nights were getting longer, encroaching on the sunlight day by day—only seven p.m., yet it was already dusk.

I swallowed my questions as Cut moved purposely out the back door and toward the maintenance barn at the rear of the estate. Most people had a shack that housed a broken lawnmower and a few empty flowerpots.

Not us.

Our shack was the size of a three-bedroom house, resting like a black beetle on the immaculate lawn.

The air temperature bit into my exposed arms as we stalked over the short expanse of grass and disappeared into the musty metallic world of saw-dust shavings and ancient tools.

Along with servants to ensure our daily needs were met, we also had carpenters, electricians, roofers, gardeners, and gamekeepers. Running an estate such as Hawksridge took millions of pounds per year.

The minute we entered, two carpenters who were lathing a chair leg turned off the machine and subtly left the room. Dusk on a Sunday and still the staff worked—our insistence for perfection ran a brutal timeline.

“Good evening, Mr. Hawk,” one worker mumbled on his way out. His eyes remained downcast with respect, his shoulders hunched.

Cut wielded a power that made lesser men—including myself—want to run and hide.

When I was in charge, I would change that. I would change many things.

Cut moved deeper into the workshop, peering into the other rooms where paintings waited for restoration. Only once he was sure we were alone did he turn to me to follow.

With unease building in my gut, I did as ordered and moved into the back room where knick-knacks and miscellaneous childhood toys had been dumped.

“What is it that you wanted to discuss?” I asked, standing still in the centre of chaos. Deliberately, I pushed my heel harder against the ground, activating a deeper throb from the new cut. It wasn’t that I liked pain. In fact, I hated the stigma and weakness of cutting myself. I didn’t get pleasure from it—but I did get relief from my disease by being single-minded and focused.

Cut shrugged out of his leather jacket, placing the embroidered Black Diamond apparel on Jasmine’s old nursery cot. His hair was unruly and grey, his jawline sharp and unforgiving.

“Show, not discuss.” With a secretive smile, he moved to the large termite-riddled cupboard at the back of the room. He removed an old brass key from his pocket and inserted it into the lock.

As I moved closer, my heart stopped beating.

It couldn’t be.

Yet it was.

Cut grabbed the handles of the cupboard and swung the doors wide, revealing what he’d shown me the night of my sixteenth birthday. That same night, he’d made me watch what he did to Emma Weaver. He made me witness video after video of what he’d done to Nila’s mother, all while beating me if I ever dared look away.

Sickness rolled in my gut.

My hands balled.

Palms sweated.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

Once again, my father had reminded me of my place and how fragile my wants, dreams, and very existence were.

My eyes burned as I drank in the age-old equipment passed down through generations. Shelf after shelf of torturous items used in extracting debts from the Weavers.

Cut’s face darkened, motioning me forward when I stayed locked to the floor. “I think it’s time you and I had a little chat, Jet.” Taking one particular item from the cupboard, I knew what he would make me do.

And I knew whatever love Nila felt for me would vanish like it never existed.

I couldn’t move, but it didn’t stop Cut from prowling toward me and placing the hated item into my shaking hands. Curling my fingers around the salt shaker, I hated that something so simple could deliver something so unforgivable.

My father murmured, “You have one last chance, Jethro. Use it well.”

Ice howled.

Snow fell.

Blizzards blew like fury.

I hung my head and gave in.

Motherf*cking shit.



That was yesterday.

A Sunday I would never forget.

Today was Monday.

A Monday that I wished I could erase.

Last Monday had been full of freedom, kisses, and passion; polo and sex and blistering new beginnings.

This Monday was full of mourning and pain. Today was the day I became the true heir to Hawksridge because if I didn’t, I doubted I would wake in the morning.

Cut hadn’t said as much. But it was what he didn’t say that made the biggest impression.

Do this or I’ll kill you.

Obey me or this is the end.

Cut had seen what I knew he would. He took great pleasure in informing me that he knew I’d f*cked Nila. He knew I’d chased after her during half-time at polo, and he knew my allegiances were changing.

It’d been a long f*cking night.

After our talk, he’d forced me to go deep, deep inside. He tore away any progress Nila had made with me and filled me with snow once again.

In an odd way, I was grateful.

Grateful because without him tampering with my psyche, there was no way in flying f*ck I would’ve got through today.

I thought I’d had months.

I thought I’d been the one in control of when the next payment would happen, but as always…I was wrong.