Second Debt

My eyes fell on Jethro.

Even him?

I steeled my heart against whatever desire existed between us.

Even him.

Sitting straight, I announced, “My fingertips.”

Jethro scowled. “Out of anywhere on your body, that’s where you’ve chosen?”

I nodded. “Yes.” I spread my hands, silently cursing the shake in them. “One fingertip per debt.”

I just hope there aren’t more than ten to repay.

Daniel smirked again. “Not a place I would’ve chosen, but it does leave your body open for more marks in the future.”

I narrowed my eyes.

“Put your hand on my leg, palm up.”

“I’m not touching you.”

Lightning quick, Daniel snatched my wrist, twisted my arm until my palm was as he requested, and slammed it against his thigh.

“Keep it there,” he ordered.

My skin crawled. I went to pull away, but Cut said quietly, “Do as you’re told, Ms. Weaver.”

Jethro sucked in air, his ire buffeting me. “This isn’t how tradition states.” His head shot up to face his father. “Cut, I should be the one—”

Cut’s features blackened. “There are a number of things you should be doing, Jethro. Yet you don’t do any of them. What makes you so eager to do this one?”

I looked between the men, all the while trying to forget my hand rested on Daniel’s thigh. Apprehension bubbled in my chest as he pressed a button on the side of the tattoo gun. Immediately the machine hummed with life.

Vertigo swirled in my blood at the thought of being permanently marked. I’d never had a tattoo, nor did I want one.

Jethro leaned forward. “This is my right.”

His eyes met mine.

My tummy twisted.

My skin ached to be touched, to be kissed, to be bruised with lust.

Gritting my teeth, I shoved away those treasonous thoughts. I forced myself to focus on my mother’s tombstone. Instantly, every desire fizzled into ash.

Daniel tore open an alcoholic wipe with his teeth, and swiped the disinfectant across the tip of my finger, breaking our connection. He grinned, holding up the buzzing gun. “Ready?”

“Cut!” Jethro growled.

I squeezed my eyes, biting my lip in preparation of the pain.

“Stop.”

My eyes tore open at Cut’s angry command.

“Enough, Daniel. Make Jethro do it. Can’t break tradition, after all.”

Daniel threw a disgusted look at his father. “You were never going to let me do it, were you?”

Cut glowered at his youngest offspring. “Watch what you say.”

Jethro shifted to the edge of the couch. “Give me the gun.”

Daniel ignored him.

His father snapped, “Daniel, give the gun to your brother.”

A glaze of inhumanity and insanity flickered across his eyes. Without permission, I stole my hand back, grateful it no longer had to touch his horrible leg.

I’m living in a madhouse.

Jethro snatched the gun. The vibrating equipment settled between his fingers.

Twisting to face me on the couch, he raised an eyebrow, looking between my hand and his leg.

Ugh.

Obediently, I placed my hand on Jethro the exact same way it’d been on Daniel. The moment I touched him, he sucked in a breath. I tried to ignore the awareness snapping between us. I tried to fight the lashing heat.

I no longer wanted it—not after yesterday.

But it seemed Jethro couldn’t control it, either. He bowed over my hand, unsuccessfully hiding the thickening hardness between his legs.

Licking his lips, he focused on my hand. His cool fingers imprisoned my index—the one without a Band Aid on from pricking myself while measuring out material—and pressed the tattoo gun against my skin.

Ouch.

I gasped, trying to control my flinch as the tiny teeth tore through my skin, layering me with ink.

“Don’t move, unless you want a sloppy tattoo,” Jethro muttered. His concentration level hummed along with the gun as it razored across the pad of my finger. I tried to see what mark he drew but his head was in the way.

Kes was right, though.

The pain started sharp but swiftly faded to an intoxicating burn. And no sooner had I relaxed into the metal teeth, it was over.

Five minutes was all it took.

The gun turned off and Jethro reclined, letting me steal my hand.

Nursing my new brand, I eyed up my fingertip. My flesh was slightly swollen and red; a new black sigil glowed like sin.

This time I couldn’t stop my heart from tangling with my stomach.

He’d marked me. Owned me. Controlled me.

“Your initials?”

Jethro pursed his lips. His eyes hooded, trying unsuccessfully to hide what he truly wanted to know. If his text wasn’t blatant enough, his initials were a slap in the face with honesty.

His gaze shouted it.

Ask me.

Am I Kite?

I looked away, following the flourish of his old-fashioned handwriting. He wanted me to admit it. To confirm what he’d guessed. I had feelings for Kite. Feelings that I thought were safe being given to a nameless stranger, only to find out that nameless stranger was my nemesis who’d charmed both my body and heart.

The ink glowed black, forever etched into my skin. With evidence like that, I no longer had to ask.

Jethro Kite Hawk.

I looked up through my eyelashes, transmitting a silent message of my own.

I already know.

And I hate you for it.