Second Debt

“Jethro…please…” Nuzzling into his chest, I willed him to feel my panic, to comprehend how terrified I was of paying another debt.

He balled his hands. “Let me go.”

I snuggled closer. “No. Not until you admit that you don’t want to do this.”

His fingers landed on my shoulders, prying me away from him. “Don’t presume to know what I want.”

“But it’s too soon! The lash marks have barely healed on my back. I need more time.”

Time to mentally prepare.

Time to steal you away.

“How do you know the timeline for what will take place?” Leaning forward, he snatched my wrist and dragged me forward. “You don’t know a thing about anything, Ms. Weaver. There is no script—no right and wrong when another debt can be taken. It’s time.”

The cold finality in his voice siphoned into my blood, delivering a vicious vertigo attack. I fell forward as the room flipped upside down.

I cried out as I stumbled, swaying to the side only for Jethro to jerk me upright.

I hated the weakness inside me. I hated that there was no cure.

I would be afflicted all my life.

Is Jethro the same?

Could whatever he suffer be the same as my vertigo? Incurable, unfixable—something accepted as broken and forever unchangeable?

While I swam in sickness, Jethro dragged me over to the ancient armoire where I’d placed my clothes and shoved aside the hangers to reveal the back panel. Pressing hard on the wood, the walnut veneer sprang open, revealing a secret compartment with hanging white calico shifts.

I moaned, trying my damnedest to shove aside the lingering after effects of the attack, and struggled weakly as Jethro turned his attention to my grey blouse.

Without a word, he undid the pearl buttons, quickly and methodically with no hint of sexual interest or burning desire.

My limbs were endlessly heavy. I lamented the unjust fate of my last name as he pushed my stretchy black leggings to the floor.

Leaving me dressed only in a white lace bra and knickers, Jethro snagged a calico shift and dumped it over my head.

I blinked nauseously as he tugged my arms through the holes as if I were a child.

What was going on? Where was the man who’d held me while he came inside me? Where was the softness…the gentleness?

The minute I was dressed, he demanded, “Take off your shoes.”

I stared into his gaze, looking for a smidgen of hope. I wanted to reach inside and make him care again.

He stood taller, a flicker of life lighting up his features. “Don’t. Just…it’s better this way.” He sighed heavily. “Please.”

I tensed to fight. To argue. But his plea stopped me.

Ironically, I was the one about to be hurt—made to pay a debt I had no notion of—yet he was the one most in pain.

He needed to stay in his shell to remain strong.

Despite my misgivings and terror bubbling faster and faster in my blood, I couldn’t take that away from him.

I’d fallen for him. What sort of person would I be if I willingly stripped him bare when he wasn’t coping? Even if he’d been tasked to hurt me?

Only a stupid, love-struck one.

Do something, Nila. It’s you or him.

Wrong.

Grabbing his hand, I pressed our tattooed indexes together and summoned all my courage. “We’re in this together. You told me so yourself.”

He tensed; his face twisted with unmentionable emotion. Hanging his head, he nodded. “Together.”

“In that case, do what you need to do.”

We stood awkwardly, both wanting to say things that would break the fragile bravery of the moment, but neither strong enough.

Finally, he nodded, and pointed at my shoes.

I didn’t argue or reply.

Kicking off my jewelled flip-flops, Jethro led me silently out the door and through the Hall.

Every footfall sent my heart higher and higher until every terrified beat clawed at the back of my throat. I’d been scared in my life. I’d bawled my eyes out when Vaughn had almost drowned at the beach. I’d become almost comatose with terror when I knew I’d never see my mother again.

But this…this marching toward the Second Debt turned my blood into tar. I moved as if I were underwater, suffering a terrible dream I couldn’t wake from.

I wanted my twin. I wanted him to make it better.

Leaving the Hall behind, Jethro continued to march me over the freshly mowed lawn, past the stables and kennels where Squirrel and a few foxhounds lounged in the autumn sun, and over the hill.

His footsteps were interspersed with an occasional limp—barely noticeable. Was he hurt?

The shift I wore protected me from nothing. The breeze disappeared up the sleeves and howled around my midriff, creating a mini cyclone within my dress.

My trembles ratcheted higher as goosebumps kissed my flesh.

“What—what will happen?” I asked, forcing myself to stay strong and stoic.

Jethro didn’t reply, only increased his pace until we crested the small incline. The moment we stood on the ridge, I had the answer to my question.

Before us was the lake where Cut and his sons had fished for trout on his birthday. It was a large manmade creation in the shape of a kidney. Willow trees and rushes graced its banks, weeping their fronds into the murky depths.

It would’ve been peaceful—a perfect place for a picnic or a lazy afternoon with a book.

But not today.

Today, its shoreline didn’t welcome ducks and geese, but an audience all dressed in black.