Third Debt (Indebted #4)(7)

Crossing my arms, I tried to ignore Daniel and understand this new development. “What do you propose?”

“It comes in stages.”

“Go on.”

“First, you need punishing. I won’t tolerate any more disobedience.” Toying with the gun, his eyes bored into mine. “Part one of this new deal is…”

“Let me beat your ass with no retaliation.” Daniel laughed, socking a punch into my kidney from behind.

White-hot heat scorched my system, setting fire to every organ. I gasped, holding the throbbing bruise. Sickly sweat sprang over my skin. I sucked air between my teeth. “You can’t be serious.”

Cut’s eyes narrowed to slits. “I’m more than serious. Fight back or try to harm your brother, and I’ll put a bullet through your skull with no hesitation.”

Daniel threw another punch, right into my intestines. A grunt escaped as I staggered forward, bending over to spit on the slimy floor. Only once I’d straightened, trembling with adrenaline, did Cut grant me the next part of his rehabilitation. “When you’ve accepted a thrashing to what I deem payable, then I’ll tell you the next part of the deal.”

Coming forward, he pressed the gun under my chin, holding my eyes on his. “You say you hurt. That life is a constant hardship. Well, I have news for you. It’s not enough for me that your innards f*cking hurt. I want your body to scream, too. It’s fitting and a worthwhile punishment for the son of a nobleman.”

Transcriptions of such punishments executed hundreds of years ago came to mind. Aristocrats dealt in different conduct when a crime had to be paid. Fists were a gentleman’s weapon rather than stocks or floggers.

Daniel’s fist collided with my jaw, snapping my head sideways. I groaned as my equilibrium turned to shit. I stumbled sideways, fighting every instinct to defend myself.

Cut stepped back as Daniel round-housed me, planting his boot squarely in my chest. With flaring pain, I tumbled to the earthen floor. Fuck, it hurt. Every inch of me was on fire—pounding with agony.

“Take your sentence like a man, Jethro. Then we’ll see if you deserve my proposition.”

I scrambled to my feet.

Daniel cackled as he kicked my ankle, sending me face-planting into dirt. I braced myself on all fours, presenting a soft target of my belly in line with his boot.

He kicked me like a f*cking animal, breaking a rib and hurtling me into Hades.

I would’ve given anything to fight back. I howled inside—handcuffed by the illusion of leniency. I took each blow, not for my downfall of being what I was, but for what I’d done.

Every strike was my penance for what I did to Nila.

Each kick was a purging for my disastrous behaviour.

I nursed Nila in my heart and found a strange healing, even in such unjust brutality.

My eyes watered as Daniel yanked my hair and cracked his knuckles against my cheekbone.

Cut muttered, “I want you bleeding in apology, son. Only then might you deserve another chance.”





“WE’RE HERE.”

Powerful buildings and iconic landmarks replaced the rugged landscape of Buckinghamshire’s countryside. There were no trees or sweeping hills, no foxhounds or horses.

London.

“Bet you missed your family, Ms. Weaver.” The policeman driving had tried small talk over the course of our three-hour drive. I’d ignored every topic.

Instead of focusing on grey concrete and overpasses, I thought of Jethro.

Where was he? What were they doing to him?

My emotions split into an unsolvable jigsaw puzzle. I was smooth edges, crooked edges, and awkward corner edges. I was cutthroat and fierce, betrayer and deceiver, loved and lover.

Only a few hours had passed since I’d left Jethro, yet I felt as if I’d been adrift forever.

I have to go back.

I was no longer a girl who would bow to her father and submit to her brother. I wasn’t content with letting others be in charge.

I was a fighter.

And I owed Cut Hawk payment for what he’d done.

A fog rolled in over the busy cog-work city of London as we journeyed through ancient streets and new.

Every streetlamp and road sign spoke of home.

My home.

My old home.

I knew this place. I’d been born here. Raised here. Trained here.

You also met Jethro when you were too young to remember here.

The car came to a halt outside my family’s sweeping Victorian manor. The whitewashed bricks looked fresh and modern. The lilac windows decorated in my mother’s favourite colour. It was quaintly feminine despite its three-story grandeur.

It’s a dollhouse compared to Hawksridge Hall.

I missed the gothic French turrets and imposing size. I missed the richness and danger that breathed in its walls.

I missed Jethro.

The glass of my window on the second floor winked through the grey drizzle, welcoming me back.

The driver pressed the intercom on the wrought iron gate, barring the Weaver Household from the rest of society. We lived in an affluent end of town. No one asked for a cup of sugar here. Everyone guarded themselves behind camera systems and armed fences.

“Yes?”

The moment my father’s voice came through the speaker, vertigo swooped in and held me hostage. The world spun.

“We’re here, Mr. Weaver.”