Spinning the wheel, I shut my ears off to Cut’s string of curses and pleas as the table slowly tilted upright, transforming from bed to wall. With every inch, Cut’s body shifted as the weight transformed from his back to his wrists. His spine remained stretched, his body distended, but now the new angle meant he could see me moving around. He was the messiah this time about to die for his sins, not others.
Feeling his eyes on me, I didn’t look up as I made my way toward the table of horrors. Gently, I placed the club back into its dusty spot and grabbed the cat o’ nine tails.
“Have you hung there long enough, Jet?”
My father’s voice roused me. My head soared up even though my neck throbbed. He’d left the clock on the stool in front of me, letting me count the time. Today, I’d been on the rack for two hours and thirteen minutes. Jasmine was still at the hospital. The doctors did all they could to fix the blunt force trauma to her spine. But they weren’t hopeful.
Nothing Cut did to me now would ever be as bad as watching my sister run for the very last time.
I’d made a promise never to come here again, but that was before Cut scooped me from my bed at daybreak and gave me no choice.
“Let me down.” I coughed, lubricating my throat. “You don’t need to do this anymore.”
He came to stand in front of me, his hands jammed in his pockets. “Are you sure about that?”
I nodded, tired and strung out and for once, blank from feeling anything. “I’m empty inside. I promise.”
He gnawed on his lower lip, hope lighting his gaze. “I really hope this time you’re telling the truth, son.” His head turned toward the table. The dreaded, hated, despised table.
A thought clouded his face as he strolled over and picked up a whip with multiple strands with cruel knots tied in the cords. He’d threatened me with the whip before but never actually used it.
I tensed in the cuffs. My limbs had stopped screaming, but my joints were beyond moving. Cut knew how far I could be stretched these days without causing me too much agony.
After all, it was about keeping me immobile and sensitive, rather than ripping me into pieces.
“Let’s see if your lessons have been learned, shall we?” He dragged the whip through his fingers. “Call this your final exam, son. Pass this and you’ll never have to come in here again.”
He didn’t give me time to argue.
His arm cocked backward.
The whip and its knotted tails shot forward.
The first lick shredded my t-shirt, biting sharply into my chest.
A scream balled in my throat, but I’d finally learned. I’d learned not to focus on myself or my sister or prey or hope or happiness or normalcy. I’d learned to focus on him—my father, my ruler, my life-giver.
So I did.
Every strike, I took with pride because Cut felt proud of me.
Every cut, I accepted with gratefulness because Cut finally believed he’d earned a worthy son.
I listened to him and only him.
And it saved me from myself.
I gripped the table as a feverish weakness throttled me. I couldn’t do this much longer. Every part of me was heavy with sickness and toil. I’d proven my point. I’d made him suffer. I had to end this before I drove myself into a grave beside him.
Pushing off from the wood, I stalked to face Cut on the rack.
His eyes widened, locking onto the whip.
“Let’s see if you’ve learned your lesson, Father. Let’s see if you can accept what you gave me as quietly as I accepted it.”
My arm shook as the whip sailed over my shoulder. I paused as the cords slapped against my back, ready to shoot forward and strike its quarry.
Cut bit his lip. “Kite…”
I didn’t wait for more. “No.”
Grunting, I threw every remaining energy into my arm and hurled the whip forward. The knots found his shirt; they sliced through it like tiny teeth, blood spurting from his flesh.
And finally, his emotions switched from sadistic hatred, misplaced actions, and a lifetime of incorrect choices to begging and shaming and accepting everything in full measure.
His head bowed as I struck again, tears streaming from his eyes. Not from pain. But the knowledge he’d done this to people he’d loved. He’d willingly done this to his children. And there was no worse crime than that.
I’d finally broken him. Finally shown him the error of his past. Finally taught him what it was like for us. He paid homage to Emma Weaver. He said sorry to Jasmine. He repented toward Nila. And finally, finally, he submitted to me and my power.
His apologies layered my mind.
His regret boomed in his thoughts.
He accepted what had to happen.
We were no longer father and son, teacher and disciple.
We were two men cleaning up the mess we’d caused.
Two men alone in a world we’d created.
And we would both suffer a lot more before it was over.
HE DIDN’T COME back.
Minute after minute.
Hour after hour.
Still he didn’t return.
I stared out the window, imploring him to appear.
I stroked my phone, willing a message to arrive.
I glanced at my door, begging him to enter.
But nothing.
Jethro was gone.
He’d committed to what had to be done.
And I feared I might never get him back.
DARKNESS.
It fell over the estate like the gown from death itself, trickling like oil into nooks and crannies, stealing light.
Every thickening shadow devoured a little of what’d happened—blotting out the day, the past, everything that’d led to this moment.
Time had passed, changing me as a person, as a man, as a son. Cut and I had visited purgatory together, and a small part of us hadn’t come back. I’d proven my point and won. And the saddest part was that the connection between us was the strongest it had ever been.
My heart wept for what I’d done. My muscles growled with tiredness. My entire body wanted to shut down.
Almost.
It’s almost time to rest.
Needing some fresh air, I left the barn and stumbled outside. Every sensory output was on fire. I’d never been so exposed or naked, drenched in the feelings of others.
The moment night chill caressed my face, I raised my eyes to the moon, gulping in purging breaths.
The atmosphere in the barn was too thick, too putrid. I couldn’t breathe properly after what I’d done.
Burying my face in my hands, I forced myself not to relive the whipping or clubbing or Cut’s tears and begs. I’d broken more than just his ankle. I’d broken his heart, his soul, his entire belief. I’d done everything I could to show Cut how blind he’d been toward his children and empire.
“Fuck.” The cuss fluttered to my feet like the autumn leaves, crunching beneath my boot. How could I have done what I did? How did I hurt my father over and over again? How did I draw his blood and break his bones?
I didn’t know the answer to that. But I was still standing, and my father finally understood.
It was over.
Rubbing my aching eyes, I swatted away my thoughts and took a deep breath. The moonlight cast my bloody hands in silver-chrome, turning the red black. Shoving the evidence of my crimes into my pockets, I strode through the forest, searching for the two men Kill had left to guard the woods.
It didn’t take me long. I followed the reek of cigarette smoke, encountering them on the border of the glen.
They turned to face me as I approached. Their hands curled by their sides and jackets bulky in the gloom.
I didn’t bother with niceties. I didn’t have the strength. “It’s done. You can go.”
The man with a mohawk nodded. “Right-o. See you around.”
I doubt it.
I left them to guide themselves out. I wouldn’t play host tonight. I st
ill had too much to do to be a gentleman.
Leaving, I faded through the forest. Once I could no longer sense them, I sat on a rock and grabbed a final breath.
This was the last decision.
Cut had been taught his lesson. I’d hurt him enough that he bordered this life and the next. He was half dead, but did I have the right to take his life completely?
He took so many others. Emma. Almost Nila. Jasmine’s livelihood. My mother’s soul.
My hands curled again, sticky with everything that’d happened.
I’d contemplated all manner of things. I’d thought of, and discounted, the idea of hanging my father, drawing out his entrails and quartering him just like convicts were done in the past. I’d pondered the concept of letting him live and banishing him from Hawksridge.
I had enough of my father’s blood on my hands. I’d hurt myself and him.
But I knew he wouldn’t let me have the happy ending I desired if I left him alive.
Eventually, he would want vengeance. Eventually, he would forget the lesson I’d taught and come back for me—come back for Nila.
I can’t let that happen.
I had to end it.
It’s the only way.
Climbing off the rock was a million times harder than it was to sit down. My body seized; I tripped forward as my head swam. How much longer could I stay awake without needing serious medical attention?
Not very.
Forcing my legs to work, I left my place of solitude and returned to the barn. My fingers shook as I turned and locked the door.
Cut didn’t make a sound. He’d passed out just before I’d left. Tearing my eyes from the almost unrecognisable shape of my father, I headed toward the table and selected a small knife.
No matter that history tarnished the blade, the sharpness still remained.
Moving toward Cut, his chin lolled on his chest, his arms splayed high while his legs spread wide. His arms and legs were abnormally long while his body couldn’t stretch any more without skin tearing as well as bones.
Blood seeped down his torso in a crisscross lattice from the whip. Beneath his wounds, the faint lines of the Tally Mark tattoos from Emma decorated his ribcage. Emma had been the one to choose the position, just like Nila chose fingertips for ours. I hadn’t seen his tally in so long; I’d almost forgotten they were there.
He had more than me and he’d carried out the Final Debt.
That was the main difference between us.
Dedication versus empathy.
Sighing, I did my best to gather my shredded power. The blade turned warm in my hand. Tearing my eyes from him, I moved to the rack and groaned as I bent in half to twist the small wheel.
Slowly, the rack reclined from perpendicular to parallel.
Cut still didn’t move.
Placing the knife by his unconscious head, I unbuckled his wrists then his ankles. The ankle I’d shattered hung at an unnatural angle, mottled and black with bruising.
My heart clenched that I could ever be so cruel, battling with childhood memories and adulthood obligations. Along with his ankle, I’d also broken his arm for Nila’s in Africa. I’d smashed his kneecap and rearranged an elbow.
I’d done such nasty shit to the man who made me.
Don’t think about it.
Snatching back my knife, I tapped his grey-covered cheek. “Wake up.”
Nothing.
I tapped harder. “Cut, open your eyes.”
His lips twitched, but his mind remained asleep.
“Goddammit, don’t make me get the water.”
I hit him, harder this time. His face slipped sideways against the table, slowly cracking the cocoon his mind had built. Whatever chrysalis he’d formed against his agony wouldn’t stop him from living through the next.
It took a few swats, but finally, his eyes opened.
For a while, confusion battered him. His gaze darted to the ceiling, coming to focus on me. I didn’t move as he took note of his over-stretched joints, broken parts, and lurched with blundering pain.
I was the nail being hammered by his thoughts, deeper and deeper, harder and harder into my soul. After tonight, I needed solitude and aloneness. I needed to gallop away and never live through something like this ever again.
“Get up.” Slinging his useless arm over my shoulder, I plucked him from the rack.
He screamed as I slipped him off the table. Regardless of his agony, he tried to move, but his limbs were no longer operational. His legs didn’t support his weight, and he fell to the dusty floor with a cry.
I went with him.
We fell in a mass of body parts, sitting side by side, our backs resting against the rack.
He gasped but didn’t try to untangle himself. Shock quickly deleted much of his overwhelming injuries, letting him rest for a moment without suffering.
The fact he found peace for a second let me find it as well.
I shared in his silence, letting the air wrap around us in a dusty hug.
For a while, I didn’t speak. What could I say? Over the past few hours, I’d proven I was as much a monster as he was. I hadn’t found reconciliation or closure. I’d only found sadness and cruelty.
But words weren’t needed.
My father, the man who’d raised me, hurt me, and ultimately cared for me in his own twisted way, slowly laid his head on my shoulder and gave me the first righteous thing of his life.
“I’m sorry, Jethro. For everything.”
My heart clamoured as tears sprang to my eyes.
I couldn’t speak.
Cut didn’t wait for a reply. He knew he was dying. His body was broken beyond repair. There would be no healing or walking away from this. His time on earth had come to an end, and now was the time to relinquish his sorrows and regrets.
His voice was a croaky thread, but my eyes pricked with his every word.
“I know how badly I treated my children. I know I was never entitled to what I took. I let power and bloodlust cloud me. I can’t amend what I did, and I can’t bring back the lives I stole, but I can ask for your forgiveness.”
His head turned heavier on my shoulder, dampness soaking into my sweat-clogged shirt from his tears.
“I need to know you forgive me, Kite. I need to know you accept my apology.”
Matching liquid sadness ran silently down my cheeks as I stared at the locked doors. “Why? Why should I forgive you?”
“Because you know I mean it. You sense I’m telling the truth. It wasn’t just the pain you showed me or the memories I relived tonight—the same memories I have no doubt you relived as well. It was hindsight, and I’ve finally allowed myself to acknowledge what I never did before.”
My gut knotted with everything I wanted to say. “And what was that?”
Cut sighed, taking his time to reply. “I listened to my mother for too long. Time twisted her mind. It made what we did acceptable, expected even. I didn’t stop to think it wasn’t right.” He broke into a sob. It wasn’t fake or forced. His emotional undoing fed directly into me and I trembled with his honesty.
Forcing himself to keep going, Cut laid his conscience at the altar of wrongness. “I’m not blaming Bonnie. I’m not blaming my past or the morals I’d been fed. I’m blaming myself for being so fucking weak to stop it. Two of my children are dead. One is disabled for life. But you came back from the grave to teach me the lesson I needed to learn.”
Kestrel isn’t dead.
He’ll come back to me because I made it safe for him to do so.
My eyes stung thinking of what my brother would say if he saw what I’d done. Would he hate me or understand? Would he fear me or celebrate? “What lesson?”
Silence fell as Cut worked out how best to deliver his epiphany.
He forgot I could taste his confession as clearly as a drop of expensive cognac on my tongue.
“That I’m no better than a Weaver. That being a Hawk doesn’t grant immunity or power over another’s life. That
I’m not the monster I tried to be.”
Silence reigned once again.
I had no reply. He didn’t need one.
I played with the knife, running the blade through my fingers. His head never left my shoulder, his arms useless by his sides.
He couldn’t move even if he wanted to, but I felt he didn’t want to. This rare precious moment would never come again, and we needed to touch, to say sorry deeper than words.
Ten minutes could’ve past or ten hours—I lost track of time. My thoughts were with ghosts of people I’d lost. Of tragedies that’d come to an end but would never be forgotten.
Finally, my father forced his head off my shoulder and smiled sadly. “You’re a good son, Jethro. I’m proud of the man you turned out to be, even after I screwed you up. I wish I could say sorry to Nila for taking the Debt Inheritance too far. I had the power all along to stop it, just as my father did, and I chose not to. I also wish I could apologise to my brother for what I did and to Rose for how terribly I treated her. So many things to apologise for.” He sucked in a breath, his arms and legs like discarded puppet strings. He couldn’t sit up. He could barely breathe. “So many things I’ve done.”
I’d done that to him. I’d shown him what he’d become, and he’d finally accepted his actions were bad, but his soul…it wasn’t as decayed as he feared.
Shifting, I kissed his temple. “I believe you.”
His sigh expelled more than just worry but his entire scorecard of wrongdoings. He exhaled his past, living the final moments in the present. “I’m ready to go, Kite. I want to go. Let me die and find peace. Let me fix the wrongs our family have caused.”
My heart charged faster. As awful as it’d been breaking my father, forcing him to be honest and true, I didn’t think I could kill him.
Not now.
Not now we’d connected like we always should’ve—man to man. Father to son.
Another tear rolled down my cheek. “I accept your apology, and I grant you my forgiveness.” I passed him the knife. “I don’t have the power to grant redemption for what you did to Jaz or Kes or Emma or Rose or the other people you hurt, but I do promise they will know you regretted it before you passed. If they can, they will forgive you in time.”
Final Debt Page 32