Third Debt (Indebted #4)(62)

“Uh, Kes…perhaps this isn’t such a good idea.” My legs trembled. “Maybe I should learn to ride on something smaller?”

Kes turned around, planting a hand on Black Plague’s rump. Ignoring my concerns, he said, “Remember how I said I’m not a conventional teacher?”

I nodded slowly, nervousness billowing in my chest. “Yes…”

“Well, here is your crash course in riding. Hold your reins tight but not too tight. Don’t jerk on her mouth. Pretend you have a twenty-pound note between your arse and the saddle and under no circumstances is it to fly free. Keep your heels down and back straight, and if you fall, roll away and don’t hold onto the reins.”

The more he spoke, the more my heart raced.

“Got it?”

Everything he just said went in one ear and out the other. “No. I don’t have it. Not at all.”

Kes threw me an evil grin. “Too bad.” Raising his whip, he kicked Black Plague and shot away as if this was the Championship Derby. “Hold on, Nila!”

I pulled on my reins as Moth bunched and collected beneath me. “No…you are not going to follow him, damn horse. I like my neck being attached to my body.”

Moth tossed her head, snatching the reins from my hands.

“No. Stop!”

A moment later, I went from standstill to full-blown gallop.

I became a blur of grey.

I became the girl from my past who believed in unicorns.

I became…free.





THE PAST FEW days, I’d done nothing but conspire on how to end this mess. I played my role, took my pills, and avoided the love of my f*cking life.

Every time I thought up a plan, I researched each angle and plotted. But each time there were flaws, hurtling me deeper into despondency. The longer I couldn’t solve my problem, the longer I avoided Nila.

I was so f*cking close to destroying everything.

I missed her. So much.

So far, I’d discounted eleven different ways of murdering my father.

Option four: Invite him to go for a hunt. Shoot him and make it look like an ‘unfortunate accident.’

Flaws: Too risky. Witnesses. He would have a weapon to retaliate with.

Option seven: Invite him to dinner. Poison the bastard’s food with cyanide—just like he’d threatened me all my life.

Flaws: Dosage might be wrong. Contamination to others.

Option Nine: Arrange a mercenary to attack mid-shipment, dispatch him and keep my hands free from murder.

Flaws: Kes might be with him and get hurt in the crossfire.

Each one seemed plausible enough until deeper inspection. But all of that was shot to shit the afternoon he called me into his office.

Once again, he somehow knew.

How the f*ck does he always know?

Was it his uncanny sixth sense? Constant monitoring of my behaviour?

How?!

What gave me away? The look of disgust I could never quite hide? The sneer of hatred I could never wipe away?

Whatever it was, I was once again f*cking screwed.

In his office, with rain pelting on the windows, he’d shown me his prized and protected Final Will and Testament.

It was a tome the size of the Royal Decree. Pages upon pages of notary amendments and appendixes. And buried in the fine print were two highlighted areas.

Primogeniture: the section on myself, my role as firstborn, and what I stood to inherit. That part went on for sheets and sheets.

His death: Most importantly his untimely death.

Cut was a businessman. He was also cunning, ruthless, and smart.

The clause stated that any unnatural death, be it from bee stings or drowning, horse riding fall or car accident—even as simple as dying in his sleep—would make his entire Will null and void.

And not just for myself but for all of us.

My siblings would be tossed out. Jasmine would be sent to a convalescent home against her wishes. The Black Diamonds disbanded. Kestrel cast away without a penny.

What did it mean?

Simple.

Cut had noted that if he died from anything other than cancer or a medically proven condition, Hawksridge was to be demolished. Any death that could potentially be maliciously faked, our mines would be detonated. Our wealth donated to causes that had no right to receive charity.

It would be the end of our lifestyle.

It was his ultimate sacrifice and safeguard to ensure we stayed loyal.

Unlike him, I didn’t care about money or ancient rubble. If it meant I could be free, so be it. But no amount of drugs could stop me from caring about my siblings.

And Cut knew that.

He showed me his trump card.

Along with Jasmine’s imprisonment in a disabled rest home—her power of attorney stripped away—and Kes’s renouncement, I would become a ward of the crown, placed in a straitjacket, and thrown into a padded room.

He had authentic documents stating my mental wellbeing. A sworn oath bullet-pointing testimonies and histories, proving I was legally unfit to represent myself. All decision-making was to be at the discretion of my enlisted doctors—doctors who’d been bribed and coerced for years and knew my past. I would have no power—no room to argue.

The documents were submitted with a letter to his lawyer, stating if anything unseemly happened to him, to look no further for the smoking gun, because all fingers pointed to me.