First Debt

by Pepper Winters

  And, it did.

  For the next five days, I spent my mornings relaxing in bed with fresh pastries and fruit salad reading about alpha males and swooning heroines, while my afternoons were spent with Kes and the boys in his quarters.

  My strange world settled into routine, and although I craved my phone and the ability to talk to Kite, I valued the reprieve—the preciousness of a secretive smile from Kes and the gentle touch of a fatherly biker.

  They all doted on me.

  They all smiled when I walked into the room and listened attentively to anything I had to say.

  I felt valued.

  I felt appreciated.

  Which was the oddest thing to admit as I’d never felt cherished, even when delivering fashion-changing designs and bringing the Weaver name to even greater heights. No, that wasn’t true. I felt beyond loved and adored by my father and brother, but it’d been the everyday reporters, models, and shop owners that’d made my career a hardship.

  Away from the toil of work, I found no drive to return. No urge to create.

  It was scary to have that part of my identity taken away but refreshing and almost medicinal, too.

  Bizarre to say, the same men who’d licked me had somehow become my…friends. I didn’t know how, but I did know I healed faster because of their friendship and found sanctuary for my heart.

  Just like Kestrel had said I would.

  Just like Cut had said I’d be welcomed into his house. I should’ve been colder, less easy to win over, but I was tired of overthinking everything and peering around corners for the next trick.

  There was only so much fear a person could live with before the brain gave up and accepted.

  The days stretched unnervingly…normal. If I wasn’t in Kes’s saloon, I was wandering down pristine corridors full of priceless artwork and tapestries. I strolled in gardens surrounded by manicured hedges and even took a nap beneath the dappling leaves of an apple tree in the orchard.

  Not one person stopped me from entering a room or leaving. Not one person raised their voice or gave me any reason to fear.

  If I bumped into a man dressed in leather and stomping in fierce-looking boots, he would smile and ask after my health. If I bumped into Cut heading to a meeting, he would bow and smile cordially, continuing on his way as if I had total right to be sneaking about his home.

  The only person I didn’t bump into was Jethro.

  It was as if he’d disappeared, and with his disappearance went my torment.

  I began to wonder if I’d been forgotten.

  Not forgotten.

  Just forgiven…

  They’ll never forgive.

  I had to admit the Hawks were diabolically clever. With their welcome came a relaxation I would never have found if I wasn’t permitted to explore on my own. A self-centred acceptance that only came from settling into a new environment with no duress.

  I truly felt a part of their household. As sick and as twisted as it seemed.

  By the end of fourteen days, with nothing to keep me occupied but reading and exploring, inevitably, my mind turned to what it had always known.

  Sewing.

  Not designing under pressure or rushing to deliver the next big thing.

  Just sewing.

  The epicentre of my craft.

  I commandeered a writing pad, thanks to interrupting a business meeting. I’d walked in to an office by accident, only to be offered freshly grilled sausages and beer by three Diamond brothers. Their food had been the basics of cuisine, yet they ate it around a fifteenth-century table in a room full of priceless ledgers and power.

  The lined paper only lasted me a day before I hunted Kes down and requested a sketchpad with no lines. The moment he’d given me one, I couldn’t stop the drive to draw, to pluck the rapidly forming ensembles from my mind and transcribe to paper.

  That evening, Kes had four additional sketchpads delivered to my room.

  I found the passion I’d lost with overworking and stress. Enjoyment and creativity came back with a vengeance. My hands turned black with lead from sketching well into the night. The pages became littered with rainbows and the barbaric sensuality of diamonds. I embraced a carnal wardrobe of want and inhibitions, creating my most daring collection to date, pulling ideas from my imagination like silver threads, splashing them onto the paper thanks to my trusty pencil.

  When my mind was blank of artistic drive, I would turn to the large volume of Weaver history and read my ancestors’ scattered thoughts and notations. I wasn’t gullible enough to write things of importance—the Hawks would only read it. A diary was the window into someone’s soul, and I had no intention of them seeing into mine.

  But I did scribble two questions.

  Where the hell is Jethro?

  What weapons are best used against ice? A chisel or a candle?

  It was on the sixteenth night of being Jethro-free that I stumbled upon the official library. Drifting down dark corridors, unable to sleep, I felt as if I’d fallen through a wormhole into ancient literature and knowledge. The ceiling was a dome, painted with a navy sky and glittering yellow stars. The walls were three stories high with swirling ladders leading onto brass walkways to peruse each shelf with ease.

  The moment I walked into the hushed world, I knew I’d found home.

  That night, I’d spent hours reading by low light, fingering leather-bound limited editions, before curling up in the most comfy of beanbags and falling asleep.

  Kes found me the next morning, nudging me awake with an amused grin. “Hi.” He threw himself into the chaise lounge that was decorated with bamboo leaves, cranes, and Chinese symbols, not far from my commandeered beanbag.

  I sat up, rubbing sleep from my eyes and stretching my stiff but mostly healed back. “How did you find me?”

  Kes pointed upward, smiling. “Cameras.”

  My heart leapt into my throat. “Of course.” That was why I was given free reign. Why no one tried to stop me. Everything I did was on show.

  I was stupid not to realize it sooner.

  I frowned. Was that what Jethro had switched off after he’d whipped me? Did he not wish his family to see him come all over my back—to show he had a weakness for me?

  And if so…why didn’t he want his family to see? He was only doing what he was told…wasn’t he?

  The past two weeks had delivered far too many questions where Jethro was concerned, and I still had no answers.

  I did have one scary conclusion, though. As much as I detested Jethro’s mind games and sick control…I missed the spark he conjured inside. I missed the clench when he touched me, and I craved the addictive fear of duelling.

  As much as I enjoyed Kes’s company, and as fond as I’d grown of him, I didn’t grow wet at the thought of winning him over or dream of his lips kissing mine.

  “Do you like the library?” Kes asked, craning his neck, trying to catch a glimpse at the open sketchpad beside me. The pages depicted a flowing silk cape that would be a mixture of air and thread.

  Forcing Jethro from my mind, I nodded. “Yes. I love the silence and smell.”

  He smiled. “Bet you’ll like what Jethro has to show you then.”

  I very much doubt that.

  I stiffened slightly, hearing Kes talk about his brother. I’d picked up on a strange edge in his tone whenever he mentioned him. And I couldn’t understand the dynamic between the two. They cared deeply for each other—that was undeniable—but there was something else, too. Something deeper and more complex than just sibling rivalry.

  Hang on.

  My ears pricked. “What does Jethro have to show me?”

  “You mean, he hasn’t shown you yet?”

  “Shown me what?”

  Kes shook his head. “He hasn’t come to find you? Hasn’t explained?” Dropping his voice, he asked, “How long has it been, since he’s come for you?”

  My forehead furrowed. Shouldn’t he know that? Wasn’t he privy to Jethro’s convoluted inner t
houghts?

  Dropping my eyes, I said, “I haven’t seen him since the First Debt was repaid.”

  Kes sucked in a breath. Rubbing a hand over his face, he stood quickly. “Look, forget I said anything. I have to go.”

  He strode from the library in a rustle of leather and denim, most likely going in search of his wayward brother.

  Forget I said anything. Kes’s words repeated inside my head.

  I would like to forget everything that’d happened since the Hawks had come for me, but that was an impossibility.

  Just like obeying Kes was.

  From that moment on, I couldn’t think of anything else.

  What does Jethro have to show me?

  And why hasn’t he come to torment me?

  THE NIGHT SKY exploded with a blue and gold firework. It rained through the blackness, dazzling through the skylight of the stable.

  Goddammit, they’d started early.

  Wings stomped his hoof against the cobblestone at the explosion. He didn’t do well with fireworks—almost bucked me off last year when I’d gone for a midnight ride, rather than smile and be merry with my father.

  Today was his birthday.

  The joyous occasion of Cut being one step closer to a coffin.

  Wasn’t my fault that I preferred to celebrate for different reasons than his. He would be basking in toasts, counting the obscene amount of wealth gushing in, and patting himself on his back for a lifetime well spent.

  Meanwhile, I would be sulking in the shadows just waiting for my turn to reign.

  Was it despicable for a son to wish his father to die so he could inherit everything sooner rather than later, or was it merely a coping mechanism at surviving yet more years under his thumb?

  Either way, it no longer mattered.

  I was thirty next year.

  And the fireworks would be bigger, louder, and more extravagant than my father’s, because I would be the new owner of Hawksridge and hold all the power. That day had seemed like an eternity away when I was eighteen, but now it was within grasping distance.

  I’ve almost made it.

  Wings stomped his metal shoe as another firework detonated. All day the festivities had continued—starting with a hunt for pheasant, which began immediately after breakfast, followed by trout fishing in the fully stocked lake. The staff worked furiously and meticulously, making sure each element of his magical day was better than the one before.

  I might secretly enjoy the news that my father inched closer to demise, but I hated celebrating my own birthday. Why rejoice another year passing, another year closer to death? I preferred to pretend I was immortal.

  That way, I would never have to pay for my sins or fall from earth to hell.

  Another firework boomed over the estate.

  Wings huffed, nudging his velvet nose against my tweed jacket.

  “You’re greedy tonight,” I said, fishing out a handful of oats and handing them to the gelding.

  In perfect late summer tradition, England had put on a gorgeous day. No wind, no clouds. Endless yellow sunshine drenched Hawksridge Hall, granting perfect conditions for Cut and his Black Diamond brothers to hunt, fish, gamble, and drink all on the front lawn. Gazebos had been erected, and the dinner had been a banquet of roast pheasant, grilled trout, and venison stew.

  My mind skipped back to watching Nila. I’d avoided her for two weeks.

  Two weeks that I needed to screw my head back on fucking straight and stop allowing my stupid emotions to get the better of me.

  Today was the first time I let her see me, but I hadn’t gone close enough to talk.

  What could I say? Sorry for whipping you? Sorry for coming on you? Sorry for my fucked-up soul that can only be controlled by a regiment of ‘fixing myself’?

  There was nothing I could say and nothing I wanted to explain.

  I sighed.

  Jasmine had worked her magic, and I was back. I’d found my way into the cold shell that protected me and spent the last week cold, remote, unfeeling.

  I was eternally relieved.

  The messiness of life no longer affected me, and I trusted myself not to boil over with no provocation. Even with provocation, it would take a lot for me to snap. I wasn’t just glacial; I was a continent of blizzards and perma-ice.

  The moment my brothers, father, and I returned from the pheasant shoot, Nila had been sitting on the front terrace, sketching. She wore a long pale blue skirt with a slight train that rippled over the black tiles of the patio and a cream blouse with a ruffled collar and big buttons.

  She’d looked content…centred.

  The time apart had given us both much needed space, and the fiery emotion she’d conjured inside was a distant memory.

  I didn’t even hate her. I didn’t have any drive to torment her, fuck her, or fight in any way. All emotions came from the same place.

  That was what I’d forgotten.

  Hate and love…they were the same thing. I’d tried to harness only one—hate. I tried to be my father’s son, full of mistrust for others, while asserting dominance and fear.

  And I’d succeeded for a while.

  But with hate comes passion—either for those I loathed or circumstances I couldn’t stand. Every spike of emotion permitted more awareness to steal my indifference and make me care.

  Caring was my problem.

  Caring was what got me into messes I couldn’t repair.

  Caring was what would kill me in the end.

  But that was fixed now.

  Resting my head on Wings’ muscular neck, I breathed in the scent of equine and hay. “Suppose I better get it over with.”

  Just the thought of confronting Nila made my skin prickle. I’d shown her too much, and now she thought she understood me. She would never understand me.

  Shit, I didn’t understand me.

  Then again, there was nothing left to understand. It was all…gone.

  Wings huffed, searching my pockets for more oats.

  Another boom of a purple and yellow firework shook the stable walls. The dogs howled in the kennels across the courtyard. Seemed everyone was on edge tonight.

  Giving the horse one last handful, I left the stables and made my way reluctantly toward the Hall.

  Nila’s black eyes found mine the moment I joined the milling men and families of Black Diamonds. Women weaved, giggling and tipsy with our own brew and vintage. No children ran around—they weren’t allowed on the estate—but the atmosphere of happiness scratched painful nails across my skin.

  Nila never looked away as I was congratulated for being the winner at poker this afternoon and for losing the bet that I could catch more trout than my father.

  It took ten minutes to cross the lawn with brothers detaining me and gossiping. Kes was in charge of the large bonfire roaring in the corner, burning off boughs and branches that had been trimmed from the forest closest to the house. Daniel—as was typical for my younger, psychotic brother—was nowhere to be seen. And Cut sat like a king on a throne, watching the staff set off dangerous fireworks.

  The large box of pinwheels, squealers, and sunbursts waited to die in an extravagance of gunpowder and brilliance.

  Stopping a few metres from Nila, I ignored her and watched the swarm of festivities. I hoped she would stay away.

  But of course, that wish went unanswered.

  “Hello,” Nila said, appearing by my side. She still wore the long skirt with blouse and large buttons. Her hair was down, thick and glossy, mirroring the flames from the bonfire. Her cheeks were flushed from being out in the sun all day, but her eyes were clear from intoxication.

  “I was beginning to forget what you looked like,” she prompted when I didn’t move or acknowledge.

  Looking at her quickly, I touched my temple in greeting. Taking a sip of the elderberry and thistle beer that had been a trial brew last year, I deliberately refrained from talking. I wouldn’t let her sucker me into another fight.

  I was done fighting.


  I would extract the debts, bide my time until all of this was mine, then get the final requirement out of the way.

  Final requirement?

  Her death, you mean?

  Scowling, I took another sip. The concoction actually wasn’t too bad. Standing stiff and remote, I stared at nothing, wishing she’d just leave.

  Her presence gave no hint of how she felt about me. I couldn’t tell if she hated me, desired me, or nursed vengeance deep in her heart.

  I expected all of that and more. I expected to be slapped and told to never go near her again. I tensed for a spark in the tinderbox of emotions we stood in, just waiting for this crumbling truce to annihilate both of us.

  What Nila didn’t know was, if she struck me, I wouldn’t retaliate. I would permit the slap with no spike of heartbeat or temper and walk away. I would stay my distance until the next debt was ready to be paid.

  Because I was done.

  I’d found peace, and I didn’t want to enter the chaos of fighting with her again. It was too fucking dangerous.

  “Where have you been?” she asked, moving closer and watching the staff drive a large firework peg into the ground. They fumbled around trying to set the fuse alight.

  I didn’t say anything. Just took another sip of my beverage.

  The hiss and fizzle of the fuse was the only warning before the firework shot into the sky and rained over us with sparks and thunder.

  Nila’s face lit up with the glowing atoms, dark eyes wide with appreciation.

  Once the night sky was no longer polluted by fake sunshine and the cloud of smoke disappeared, Nila frowned in my direction. “Are you going to say something?”

  I shrugged. Why? What was there to say? Nothing of importance and I’d done enough talking. Enough fighting. Enough fucking masturbating over the girl I was destined to kill.

  Why was she talking to me? Shouldn’t she be avoiding me at all costs?

  I stilled as Nila placed her hand on my forearm. Her feminine heat seeped through my tweed, reminding me of the last time we’d been together and what I’d done.

  I stepped sideways, breaking her hold.

  “Jethro—I—” Her voice tugged at the unbeating heart in my chest. I risked a glance at her. Her eyes glowed with onyx intelligence.