Second Debt (Indebted #3)(48)

Cut had seen my ultimate plan before I’d even finalised the details.

He’d understood my tentative scheming of dragging out the debts until I was thirty. By then, I would’ve been in charge. By then, I might’ve found a way to spare Nila’s life without losing mine.

I had the Sacramental Pledge over the Debt Inheritance.

I’d put things in place to end this—once and for all.

But none of my forward thinking mattered anymore.

Today was the day Nila paid the Second Debt.





THE MOMENT JETHRO walked into my quarters, I knew.

We’d slept together three times, spent only weeks in each other’s company, yet I knew his soul almost as well as I knew my own.

Mystery still shrouded him, still hid so much, but I’d learned to read his body language.

I’d learned how to listen to his heart.

“No,” I whispered, clutching the tulle I’d been working on to my chest.

Jethro looked away, his face blank and unfeeling. “Yes.”

I didn’t need words to tell me what had happened. The truth was far too vivid to ignore.

His father.

His father had shoved him back into the blizzard and slammed the door in his face. He’d done something to him that wedged a canyon between us and left us with only one thing.

The debts.

Our emotions were on hold.

Our connection severed.

My heart sank.

I let the lilac tulle slip through my fingers, destroying the carefully pinned pattern of a ball gown that would be my centre piece of my Rainbow Diamond Collection.

Last night, I’d formulated a few goals. If I intended to stay at Hawksridge, to finish whatever had begun between Jethro and me, I had to give the outside world an explanation.

I had to put an end to the suspicion about what’d happened to me.

People were talking. This morning, I’d turned on my phone and browsed a few websites for what they thought happened to me. Scarily, there were a few very close to the truth—it seemed strange that something so incomprehensible could be guessed at so closely.

Almost as if someone had been telling secrets that they shouldn’t.

Vaughn perhaps?

Could he be behind the leaked knowledge? I wanted to ask him but he hadn’t replied to my messages. He’d gone completely silent.

Regardless, it didn’t matter. I was stuck here, and I had to find some way to deal with what was out there. It was time to announce a new fashion line, and at the same time, put those rumours to rest.

Along with the hunches on my disappearance, I’d also read Jethro’s message that he sent the morning of the polo match. His words were sincere but also full of regret. Would his offer to answer my questions via text still stand—even when he looked at me as if he were dead inside?

Pulling extra pins from my cuffs, I shook my head. “Jethro…it’s too soon.”

I thought I’d have weeks yet…months even. You didn’t think—you hoped.

If I had known this would happen, I would’ve gone to him sooner. I would’ve forced him to face the truth and discuss once and for all what’d happened between us last Monday. Instead, I’d done nothing but work. I didn’t wander the premises or go for a run. The constant fear of where Daniel lurked had kept me trapped better than any bars or cage.

Trembles took over my chilled muscles. “Surely there must be a way to stop—”

“Quiet, Ms. Weaver. I have no patience for your begs.” Stalking toward me, he growled, “You know what is expected of you.”

I searched his gaze for the warmth and golden glow of before.

There was nothing.

Closing the distance, I wrapped my arms around his frigid body. Once again, his extremities were cold. No heat. No liveliness.

“Jethro…please…” Nuzzling into his chest, I willed him to feel my panic, to comprehend how terrified I was of paying another debt.

He balled his hands. “Let me go.”

I snuggled closer. “No. Not until you admit that you don’t want to do this.”

His fingers landed on my shoulders, prying me away from him. “Don’t presume to know what I want.”

“But it’s too soon! The lash marks have barely healed on my back. I need more time.”

Time to mentally prepare.

Time to steal you away.

“How do you know the timeline for what will take place?” Leaning forward, he snatched my wrist and dragged me forward. “You don’t know a thing about anything, Ms. Weaver. There is no script—no right and wrong when another debt can be taken. It’s time.”

The cold finality in his voice siphoned into my blood, delivering a vicious vertigo attack. I fell forward as the room flipped upside down.

I cried out as I stumbled, swaying to the side only for Jethro to jerk me upright.

I hated the weakness inside me. I hated that there was no cure.

I would be afflicted all my life.

Is Jethro the same?

Could whatever he suffer be the same as my vertigo? Incurable, unfixable—something accepted as broken and forever unchangeable?

While I swam in sickness, Jethro dragged me over to the ancient armoire where I’d placed my clothes and shoved aside the hangers to reveal the back panel. Pressing hard on the wood, the walnut veneer sprang open, revealing a secret compartment with hanging white calico shifts.