Cold hands grabbed my shoulders, jerking me from bowed to straight. I moaned as my head sloshed with pain.
“Stop embarrassing me,” Jethro snarled.
Embarrassing him? Bastard. Arsehole. Son of Satan. I glowered with tear-swimming eyes into Jethro’s cold uncompassionate gaze. Something flicked over his gold irises—a dark shadow. That was the only warning I received before his hand came up and struck me around the side of the head.
I thought I was brave. I thought I was strong. But I’d never been struck before. Daniel’s slap in the car last night didn’t count. This abuse had come from a black place—a place inside Jethro where unsurmountable anger boiled. And it was endless. He may be a glacier on the outside but in there…in his heart…he steamed with pressuring rage.
Crashing to my knees, I curled my smarting head into my arms. I came from a family who loved each other so much, a disappointed look or stern word was enough to break your heart. Physical abuse wasn’t something I knew. It wasn’t something I could prepare for.
Jethro grabbed my hair, pulling me upright. I held onto his wrists to prevent the tearing pain. My blurry gaze focused on his grey shirt and perfectly creased jeans.
He glared. “You’ll clean that up, but for now you have other things to attend to.”
Not letting go of my hair, he carted me toward his father. Every step I took, I tried to hide my exposed breasts and ignore the breeze between my naked legs. The pinafore Jethro had put on me barely covered my stomach let alone valuable places. Places I would give my entire design line to have covered. The stupid maid cap tilted to the side, clinging to my tangled hair.
I couldn’t count how many men existed around the table, but their eyes never met mine. Most were glued to my chest or mesmerized lower down as I side-shuffled to hide as much of my decency as possible.
But it wasn’t just their eyes sending spider legs scurrying over my flesh. It was the huge immaculate paintings of men wearing white wigs, elegant coat and tails, and hunting regalia glaring down from the dark red walls.
Their eyes weren’t lifeless but full of distain—somehow they knew a Weaver was in their midst and the crackling fireplace was useless to stop my chill.
My sentence was to be carried out with ancestors and family heirlooms as witnesses.
The moment we came to a stop beside Mr. Hawk, sitting in his ornate dining chair, Jethro jerked my neck back. His flawless face filled my vision. “You are no longer free. Look. See your future and understand there’s no sweet talking, begging, or bargaining your way out of this. You wear the collar. You’re ours completely.” Jethro’s voice was artic, glittering with power.
The collar cut into my skin. I wanted to spit in his face.
Shoving me toward Mr. Hawk, the old man snaked an arm around my naked waist, tugging me onto his lap.
“Obey and make me proud, Ms. Weaver,” Jethro said, crossing his arms. He shifted to stand behind his father’s chair, removing himself from the role of authority, becoming merely a spectator.
He’s never called me Nila.
The stupid thought came and went on a heartbeat. Jethro was yet to use my first name.
I shuddered, feeling overwhelmingly sick again.
Jethro was awful but being disowned and handed over to a room full of men was worse. I would’ve given anything to avoid was what about to happen. I would willingly trade all my nights in a bed and return to the kennels. The hounds were loving, kind…warm.
I sat frozen on Mr. Hawk’s lap.
His hand rested on my upper thigh, not violating but terrifying. “Now that we all understand each other, I want you to look at something for me, Nila. Then the festivities will begin. Every man you serve, you’ll receive another snippet of your history. Only once you’ve completed your task will you know the entire story and will be free to spend the afternoon either in the steam baths below the house as a reward or in solitary confinement in the dungeons as punishment, depending on how well you please us.”
I couldn’t understand how my body still functioned. Shock turned my limbs to statues, fear made me mute—I died inside until there was no part of me left. But still my heart kept pumping; my blood kept flowing—staying alive only for their sick pleasure.
The weight of my mother’s collar bit into my neck and a question came from no-where. My mother was a Weaver. Her mother before her was a Weaver. But wouldn’t they have changed their names according to the surname of their husbands?
I blinked, trying to remember my father’s last name.
I can’t.
“You look confused. I’ll permit you to ask a question before we proceed,” Mr. Hawk said, settling me higher on his knee.
I fought my cringe, struggling to formulate the words. “My mother’s maiden name was Weaver, but she would’ve changed it when she got married.” I glanced at Jethro behind his father’s chair. He tilted his chin, looking down his nose.
Mr. Hawk shook his head. “That son of mine hasn’t explained anything has he.” Twisting in the seat, he glanced at Jethro. “What exactly have you been doing? You know information is what grants us control. We’re the ones in the right. How can she hope to accept her situation if you keep her in the dark?”
Jethro clenched his jaw but remained silent.
Rolling his eyes, Mr. Hawk faced me again and smiled. “I’ll give you a brief history lesson, then you must begin your duties.” Reaching up, he tugged the maid’s cap on my head.
Every inch of me crawled, but I didn’t move away. I was hungry for knowledge. Starving to know just how they continued to control my family with no fear of police interference or retribution.
Mr. Hawk reclined, his thumb drawing small circles on my upper thigh. “It all began with one man, who you’ll find out about in a little bit. He had children, gracing them all with the Weaver name. Now, from that day on, the power of the family name travelled with the firstborn girl. No matter if she married, divorced, or suddenly wanted to change her name to something whimsical, she wasn’t permitted. Whoever she married, it was a condition that the man change his name so that their offspring always bore the Weaver name and continued the line of succession of the debt.”
Why did they do it? Why keep a name that only brought misery? My mind hurt trying to understand the Hawk’s power.
“You, I believe, are the seventh woman to be taken. And the claiming can happen anywhere between the ages of eighteen and twenty-six.”
“You have rules on ruining someone’s life?”