Third Debt (Indebted #4)(10)

I had to try.

I tipped a tablet into my palm and tossed it onto my tongue. Locking eyes with my father, I took a swill of water and swallowed the first drug of many.

Nila had my heart.

But my father had my very existence.





THE CAR ROLLED through the gates.

The tyres inched closer to the front porch.

The front door opened.

My brother appeared.

V.

Before I could take a breath and prepare, the car door was jerked open.

He hadn’t changed.

His black hair still fell roguishly over one eye. His body was fit and toned—wiry with model-perfect lines. He sported a slight beard—tight and dark—it made him seem like some modern day Robin Hood stealing me from the Hawks and returning me to my rightful place.

“V—” I wanted to say more, but my throat gave out. Tears spurted from my eyes.

Vaughn was here.

He could fix this. He could mend my defective heart. He could fight for me so I wouldn’t have to.

We have to save Jethro. Before they do something terrible.

His hands captured my cheeks, holding me firm as his mirroring black eyes drank mine. “Threads.” He pressed a kiss against my temple. “Threads. Fucking hell, you’re here.”

I sucked in a breath, fumbling with my seatbelt. I wanted to be closer to him. To let him erase my breaking pieces.

Because I was breaking.

Jethro had stolen my everything.

But this was my brother.

The brother I’d betrayed.

A sob latched onto my lungs, making me cough, making me relive what the Hawks did to me in the lake.

I coughed again. More tears fell.

V groaned under his breath, tearing off my seatbelt and dragging me into his arms.

My legs dangled as he crushed me to his chest. His heartbeat was steady and strong as I cried into his white shirt.

Steady and strong.

Jethro’s heartbeat had been irregular and terrified.

I cried harder. Not just for how royally I’d screwed everything up but for leaving Jethro when I’d promised I’d stay.

Please, please let him be alright.

“It’s okay, Threads. I gotcha. You’re safe now. Those f*cking bastards will never come near you again. You hear me? Never.” His voice was harsh with promise.

He sounded so young compared to the scratch and scrawl of Jethro’s immaculate eloquence. Swear words were something Jethro only resorted to when he couldn’t control himself—whereas my brother used them as punctuation.

“Nila.”

My body stiffened at my name…at the way my father breathed it so lovingly.

V unwound his arms. I raised my head and looked into my father’s eyes. Archibald ‘Tex’ Weaver looked a hundred years older. His toned physique was gone, replaced by a sagging middle and even worse sagging eyes. His effortless style of slacks and shirts had been switched for baggy jeans and stained polo shirts.

His despair—the complete abandonment of everything he’d been—was better than any spoken apology. More poignant than any beg or plea for understanding.

“I’m so sorry, Nila,” he choked, tears glittering.

I was livid. I was distraught. I had so many unresolved issues toward my father but we were family. Forgiveness was utmost.

Another sob escaped as I shuffled closer. V never let me go. Instead, Tex came to us. He wrapped his strong arms around his son and daughter and crushed us to the bone. His cheeks grew damp with sadness, and his signature smell of Old Spice tore up my nose and ripped my brain into ribbons.

Oh, God. Oh, God.

The world spun.

Faster and faster and faster.

In my family’s joint embrace—the same embrace where I’d found such comfort before—now I only found sickness and horror.

I screeched as my ears roared; my eyes slid to the back of my head.

Round and around and around.

I suffered the worst vertigo spell in years.

I trembled so much, no one could hold me. They let me go, leaving me to suffer alone. They had experience dealing with me—they knew when I became like this, touch was the worst kind of torture.

V and my father guided me to the floor where I kneeled with my head on my knees, trying to hold on to the world that’d suddenly gone mad.

Down was up and up was down.

Their voices plaited into concern, rushing around, making the spinning worse.

Sickness became nausea which became overwhelming.

I couldn’t get it under control. I was completely at the mercy of my broken mind.

I threw up.

A small, tiny voice in my head squeaked. Vertigo or pregnant?

I threw up again.

Never. Not possible. I couldn’t be.

“Shit, Threads.” Vaughn squatted beside me. His hands twitched to touch me. To rub my shoulders and tuck my hair behind my ear. But he knew to stay away. If he rocked me or tried to comfort me, my body might hurl me into another episode.

It was me who had to stand—me who had to heal.

The vertigo wave spun faster, stealing my ability to think. My body bellowed from my other injuries.

My father stood over us, his scruffy jaw clenched. He used to be such a support system—such a much-needed part of my life. Now, he made me shatter. My newfound strength slowly siphoned into a cesspit of misery.