Second Debt

It was worse than any whipping post or dungeon.

Jethro leaned on the wooden joist, tilting the pendulum to sway the chair from the glistening water. It moved as if it was possessed, floating effortlessly, swinging toward me as if it knew I was the one destined to sit.

I moved back, tripping over my feet in my rush.

I bumped into something solid and warm. Jumping, I swallowed my squeal as Kes’s strong fingers came around my shoulders, rubbing me with his thumbs. “Trust us. We won’t let you drown. We know you’re innocent of witchcraft and don’t need to prove that by taking your life.” His voice lowered, barely registering in my ears. “Hold your breath and let your mind wander. Don’t fight. Don’t struggle.”

His circling thumbs made me want to vomit. His kind-heartedness only made this worse. Jerking out of his hold, I stood shivering in my shift. “Don’t touch me.”

His eyes tightened with hurt, and for some inexplicable reason, I felt as if I owed him an explanation.

I’m so cold.

Fear had stolen everything.

I’d never quivered so badly—never been so terrified. My teeth chattered harder and I bit my tongue. Pain flared, a trickle of blood tainting my mouth.

Jethro came up beside me. He held out his hand. “Ready, Ms. Weaver?”

No.

I’ll never be ready for this.

I paused, swallowing blood and every urge to beg.

If we were alone, I would’ve toppled to my knees and wrapped my arms around his waist. I would’ve had no decorum or self-control. I would’ve promised anything, given him everything, if only he put a stop to this.

Please, don’t do this.

His eyes narrowed, glinting with anger. His family watched our every move.

That was it, then. There was no way out. He was resigned to this. And so must I.

Dropping my head, letting a curtain of ebony hair block me from this world, I nodded.

“You need to say it,” he muttered. “Say it out loud. Admit that you deserve this.”

Closing my eyes, I died a little inside. Forcing myself to raise my hand, I presented myself to him.

Jethro stole my wrist; his cold touch seeped like permafrost into my already freezing body.

With a tug, he stole me from the pentagram and dragged me toward the chair. “You still haven’t said it, Ms. Weaver.”

My panic had become physical, slapping a gag over my mouth. I struggled with the word. One simple little word.

Stepping toward the chair, I whispered, “Yes. Yes, I admit I deserve this.”

Jethro made a mangled noise in his chest.

I closed my eyes.

It was done.

TYING HER DOWN was one of the hardest fucking things I’ve done.

Not because my family were watching and I had no way of fucking up the debt.

And not because my heart dripped with icicles and frost.

And not even because I was so fucking close to snapping and showing everything that I was.

But because I’d promised myself the next time I restrained her, I would be granting her pleasure not pain.

I’d wanted her to writhe beneath my tongue while she was bound. I wanted to taste her as she came apart while suspended. And I wanted her delicious moans to fill my ears while she was trapped.

I wanted her to give in to me. To trust me. To give me every single pleasure she could feel.

When I’d fucked her in her quarters that second time, I’d made a vow to take her completely. To take her my way…all the way.

That meant getting inside her head, her heart, her mind. I wasn’t satisfied with owning her body. It didn’t give me what I craved. Only her complete submission and immeasurable love could do that.

I would’ve taken days. Days to extract everything she had to give me. The word ‘torture’ came from the origins to twist. I would’ve twisted Nila’s emotions so she’d carry me forever in her heart. I would’ve made a home inside her so I could be finally fucking free.

She could give me a cure no one else could grant. She could switch every pain I had into something…more.

I wanted more.

I wanted everything.

And now, I would have nothing.

Now, she would forever associate being tied up as something to be avoided, especially by me.

Her rapid breath fluttered over my face as I bent over her and pressed her forearm against the armrest.

The white shift didn’t hide the ghost of her lingerie, nor the peaking of her nipples. Her skin was cold, her lips growing bluer by the minute.

She hadn’t even been in the lake and already she looked hypothermic.

She’s as cold as me.

The leather slipped a few times from my grip as I fumbled to feed the buckle. Luckily, my back blocked my motions from my father—otherwise he would see my frost was thawing. He would see the haunting in my eyes of being so close to this woman while she hated me.

Nila was the culprit—my undoing.

She melted me.

She was the fucking sun. And I was about to splash out her heat.

Once her wrists were shackled, I ducked to attend to her ankles. Her legs jostled as her shaking grew worse. Her teeth chittered and chattered, her hair sticking to the cold sweat dotting her brow.

I hesitated a moment too long. Reaching out, I wrapped my fingers around her leg, preparing to fasten the cuff.

She gasped, dragging my eyes to her.

Fuck.

It was a terrible mistake to look at her.

She looked so small. So easily broken. Her eyes were too wide for her face; her skin stretched over bones that might shatter if she became any colder.