My heart went from slow to interested. “No, I hadn’t.” I honestly hadn’t contemplated much of our heritage or history. Would that void the contract then? Firstborn carrying both genes?
I guess not, because it’s still in effect.
“What happened to them?”
Cut smiled cruelly. “Same thing that happened to their mothers.”
The alcohol I’d consumed oozed through my blood.
He leaned forward. “When Nila returns, when the time comes to extract more debts, you’re free to do whatever you want with her. I’ll put an end to any illegitimate offspring, and as long as you teach that whore her place, then I give you my vow that on your thirtieth birthday, I will gladly hand you the keys to everything I own. It will all be yours, Jethro.”
Finch majestically landed on the back of the couch, his beak sharp and deadly. Cut stroked the bird as if no threat echoed in his words.
I raised my empty glass. “Her tricks won’t work again, Father. Consider my eyes open and my heart firmly aligned with the Hawks.”
“Good to hear.” His gaze locked on mine. “Because if you disappoint me again, there will be two bodies in Nila Weaver’s grave. Mark my words, Jet. I love you, but I won’t hesitate to kill you if you screw this up again.”
Twenty-one days.
Five hundred and four hours. One hundred and twenty-seven tablets.
I hadn’t relapsed. I’d taken my medicine religiously, and Cut had tested me thoroughly.
I’d passed.
I was ready.
To celebrate the next stage of our plan, my father took the brotherhood off the estate to a local pub in the village. He hired out the entire place and bought each Black Diamond member dinner along with an open bar.
The night was full of laughter and drunken idiocy. Kes remained cool but friendly, and Daniel drank far too much, as fucking usual. I enjoyed myself, growing in my role as heir and basking in the way my men watched me. They looked at me the same way they looked at Cut—with trepidation and respect.
I’d truly taken my place, and there was no mistaking I was next in line for the throne.
After a four-course dinner and plenty of crude innuendoes, Cut stood at the head of the table, clinking a knife against his half-empty beer.
The low ceilings of the 16th century pub pressed down on us with hops drying in the rafters. It was quaint and country—so different to the imposing halls and artifacts of Hawksridge.
“Attention.” Cut tapped his glass again. Men continued to snicker and drink. Cut slammed his glass down, making the dirty plates rattle. “Attention!”
Silence fell; all eyes zeroed in on Cut. “Time to toast. Listen up.”
A few men saluted while others sobered.
“Stand up, Jethro.”
The past three weeks had changed us. His face had lost its pinched anger. I’d lost my defiant hatred. We no longer looked at each other like we wanted to kill and maim.
We were equals.
I got my wish. I found a place in my family. I became…him.
Cut raised his arms. “Tonight is a special night, boys. Not only have we expanded across Sierra Leone this month and done more trades than ever before, but I believe luck has finally granted us a true successor.”
I’d done everything he’d asked. Put everything into place like he wished. And tonight, I’d earned his ultimate respect.
He tilted his glass to me. “The newspapers are bored with shredding my name. The black market dealers are back to buying in bulk, and our notoriety has only strengthened. The Weavers think they’ve won, but this is only the beginning.”
I planted my heavy boots on the ancient floor, mirroring him in a toast. “Here, here.”
The men followed, murmuring ascent.
We’d all seen the newspapers, the broadcasts of Vaughn Weaver telling secrets that should never be told. He thought he’d ruined us. That any moment we’d be arrested and convicted.
Stupid, stupid idiot.
Dressed in black leather with our stitched emblem of Black Diamonds on the pocket, I felt invincible. Nothing could stop us now. No one could even try.
I was untouchable. And it was fucking magical.
“To Jethro.” Cut’s voice softened. “To my son. To Kite. I’m so glad you’ve finally seen the error of your ways. I always knew you had potential and have no doubt you’ll earn everything I have to give before this is over.”
I nodded. “You can trust me.”
The men stomped their feet, sloshing their beer onto the table.
Kestrel patted my back. “I hope you know what you’re doing.”
Daniel gave me a signature smirk. “Roll on the next debt, brother.”
I was firstborn.
This was my legacy.
After weeks of preparation, I’d agreed once and for all to prove it.
By killing Nila Weaver.
LIFE MOVED ON.
I learned to live with a broken heart and stopped jumping at shadows.
No one came to steal me back, and the threat of destroying my family’s life went unresolved. However, I had one question that never left: Are they just biding their time?
In my mind, I lived in a fake world of normalcy and safety. But somewhere out of sight, clouds were forming—growing heavier and more powerful every day.
I no longer trusted that the police could help or that publicity could keep me safe.
If the Hawks weren’t done with me, there was nothing anyone could do.
Hour after hour, I wondered why I stayed. Why I headed into the factory to work under crazy deadlines and demanding buyers. Why didn’t I just run?
The passion to create had gone.
I had no wish to sew.
I hated my listlessness.
I hated the coldness inside that no one could touch.
I lived in constant trepidation; serpents gathered in my gut, hissing with premonition. I missed Jethro with every fibre of my being. He was dazzling sunlight and now I lived in endless darkness.
I was dying without him.
But it wasn’t finished.
The debts weren’t done.
Vaughn wanted me to fly to Asia and hide. Father wanted me to enter witness protection and escape.
I didn’t want to do any of those things and worried about all of us—about what this had done to my family. But despite my worries, my clothing brand exploded overnight.
Nila went from exclusive couture to being the most wanted garments in all major department stores. Vaughn became the face of menswear and even dabbled in design himself.
And me…
I went from Weaver Whore to a slave for the Weaver Empire. I didn’t have the drive I once did but didn’t have the heart to tell my family.
The only time I had to stand still was to wobble with a vertigo attack.
I was paraded before media.
I was the centre of a worldwide scandal.
I was a marionette.
All I could do was clutch my brother as my life spiralled out of control.
I missed the tranquillity of Hawksridge.
I missed the lavender-scented breeze when I sat out in the gardens and sketched.
But most of all, I missed the soul-deep connection with Jethro.
I’d continued to bombard him with messages, but he didn’t text back.
Not once.
Not a single time.
My gut churned as the world laughed. Questions followed me wherever I went:
How could they get away with that?
Why didn’t they tell someone?
Why didn’t they run?
Even I felt that way.
Yes, the Debt Inheritance was used as a tool to wield power. Yes, it granted certain privileges to our pain. But none of that was the real reason.
There was nothing to stop Jethro or his family setting up a sniper rifle on the building opposite our home and firing rounds of ammo through our windows, slicing our lifespan in a blink.
They didn’t need the Debt Inheritance to kill us.
This was something more.
A game.
Something I felt was more to do with Jethro than with me. I was just the unlucky target. Just like any employee had to prove their loyalty and skills before a promotion, I had a horrible feeling I was Jethro’s final test.
Needle&Thread: I don’t know why I keep messaging you. You’ve cut me out of your life completely. Three weeks, Kite. Three long weeks of nothing. You’ve hurt me worse than anyone. I miss talking. I miss our messages. I miss…
I pressed send before I could delete it.
I shouldn’t miss him—not when he obviously felt nothing for me.
Try telling my stupid heart that.
My stupid heart fed me worry. I feared for his life. I had no way of knowing if he was alive or dead.
Waiting for a new message reminded me of the very beginning when I first started messaging him. I’d hang on a thread for one tiny response—waiting for a sliver of his attention. It seemed I’d gone full circle.
I leaned over to dump the phone into my bedside drawer when something miraculous happened.
It vibrated.
Oh, my God!
Fumbling with the lock screen, I swiped it on and stared greedily at the first text from Jethro in almost a month.
Kite007: That’s cruel, leaving the message unfinished.
My heart thundered. Resting against my pillows, I replied:
Needle&Thread: You’re cruel, not replying to any of them.
Kite007: Cruel is my middle name.
I glanced at my fingertip tattoo and its inked JKH.
Needle&Thread: No, it’s not.
Kite007: Believe what you want to believe.
Needle&Thread: What happened to you? Tell me. You seem different.