Third Debt (Indebted #4)(82)

My hatred turned inward, battering and pouring yet more acid on my already flayed wounds. I asked more of him than any brother should. I ought to thank him and never speak of it again. But my lips formed another question, spewing it forth. “Did you come?”

He looked away.

Gratefulness or not, I couldn’t stop my possessive rage. “Motherf*cker.”

I lunged.

I caught him off guard, landing a right hook and a left before he wizened up and punched me in the gut.

“Shit, Kite. Calm the f*ck down. I didn’t do anything we didn’t agree.”

“We agreed you wouldn’t come!”

“We agreed on other things, too.” His eyes narrowed. “Or are you forgetting about those?”

I froze.

He’s right.

I hadn’t honoured past promises, no matter how hard I’d tried.

Looking past me, his attention switched. “Shit, that was fast. How long did it take to kick in?”

Shaking out the pain in my knuckles from punching three of my family members, I glanced at Daniel and Cut on the floor. “It didn’t. I helped them along.”

Kes dragged a hand through his silvering hair. “What the f*ck did you do? You know they can’t wake up in the morning and think it didn’t happen. Shit—what was the point in all of this if you couldn’t even let it run its course!”

The room tilted and weaved.

I heaved as my stomach tried to revolt against the booze. “Had no choice. Couldn’t do it anymore.”

Suddenly, I couldn’t look at Kes without reliving what he’d done to my woman. It shredded my skin, turned my muscles into quivering agony. “I can’t—I can’t stay in here with you.”

Kes stomped forward and gripped my shoulders. “You have no choice. It’s not over yet.”

I tensed against his thoughts, preparing myself to flounder in his coital bliss from Nila, but like most times, Kestrel protected me. I picked up on faint frequencies, but he kept the majority hidden behind a calm curtain of nothingness.

I sighed, pushing him away. “Sorry.”

He nodded. “I get it.” Pointing at comatose Cut and Daniel, he added, “Let’s finish up. Then we can call it a night, yeah?”

Swaying on my feet, I moved to lock the door. “You’re right.”

Together, we faced the archives of previous debts and extractions. I pulled up old footage of Emma Weaver. “It’s time to get creative.”

With a solidified bond, we each took a keyboard and began.

Goddammit, I was a monster.

Covering my face, I folded over her bed.

I was so tired.

So f*cking drained.

It’s all so f*cking hard.

All I wanted was to give in. To tell her the truth and end the lies I’d always lived.

Pulling the tiny bottle from my pocket, I deliberated taking another. The drugs helped me stay sane—they were the only thing that had a power over me—but as much as I appreciated the silence, the numbness from overwhelming intensity, I hated the severance between Nila and me.

She deserved so much more than what I’d given her.

And now she would hate me for eternity.

Clutching the bottle, I cursed the swirling room.

Nila was safe and untouched.

She would remain safe and untouched.

I was done being unhappy and selfish. My sacrifice would keep her safe.

I would trade a lifetime in a straitjacket to give her a long, happy existence.

Those were our futures. And her hating me would only make that separation easier on her.

Sighing, I slid back to the floor and curled up beside her bed.

I would guard her for the rest of my days.

It would be the one good thing I’d done before I died.

Falling to my side, the room spun quicker and quicker.

I closed my eyes and succumbed.





THE WORLD SOLIDIFIED.

I traded treacle-unconsciousness for cumbersome reality. One moment I was off in make-believe land with deformed unicorns and black rainbows, the next, I was awake.

Where am I?

Groggy, heartbroken, stupefied.

I clutched my head, warding off the gentle headache and fuzzy taste on my tongue. I smacked my lips, trying to get rid of the taste. The metallic residue was…familiar.

But where from?

It reminded me of the one and only operation I’d had when I was seventeen to remove my tonsils. I’d been sick for a year with tonsillitis until I’d begged to have them out.

Waking up from the operation had been terrifying. Surrounded by piercing beeps and turned into a pincushion with needles.

Massaging my temples, I forced my brain to work.

What happened last night?

I blinked.

The Weaver quarters pieced together like a storybook—bolts of fabric hanging from the walls, messy table with scissors and chalk, and the grey centrepiece for my collection draped otherworldly on the mannequin.

My eyes flew to the towel discarded on the emerald W embroidered carpet.

Did I get dressed in a hurry?

I followed the trail of fuchsia pink dress draped over the wingback by the fireplace. I frowned at the unwanted lingerie on the foot of the bed.

Then I saw the zipped garment bag.

And everything propelled into me with razor blades.