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 thoughts?
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.