Cut continued to drag his fingertip along Nila’s throat, following the contours of the diamond collar. “As much as it’s a pleasure to have you living under my roof, Ms. Weaver, I do have one requirement. I hope you don’t begrudge me my small request.”
Cut reached into his pocket and pulled free the single reason why we were here. He held up the item for her to see.
Gritting her jaw, her eyes popped wide.
The syringe glinted in the lowlight chandelier.
Fight and flight filled her body. “Wait. You don’t have to drug me. Jethro, tell him. Tell him you don’t have to drug me. I came on my own accord! I already promised I wouldn’t run. I won’t. I give you my word.” A single tear rolled down her cheek. “I’ll behave. You can trust me. God, please trust me. I’ll behave now.” Her breathing turned shallow and fast. “I don’t want to be drugged. I don’t want to be lost. Please!”
Cut laughed, hushing her spew of words. “I know all that, my pet. Calm down before you give yourself a heart attack.”
Nila paused, hope lighting her gaze.
Cut smiled softly. “This isn’t to subdue you.”
“What—what is it then?”
“I’ll let my son tell you that.” Brushing some hair that’d fallen over her eyes, he pressed another kiss against her mouth. She tensed but permitted the touch, not twisting her head away.
The fear of being manipulated by a substance had well and truly subdued her. I’d have to remember that. If only she knew that some drugs were better than life—that they made existing so much more pleasurable.
Cut stood tall. “I’ll leave you two lovers alone.” Stroking between her breasts, he smiled. “You’re free to do what you please for the rest of the morning, but I expect to see you dressed and presented for your meeting at noon.”
Handing the syringe to me, he said, “I’m watching you.”
Taking the implement, I nodded. “You don’t need to. Consider it already done.”
Cut stared, searching my reply. He would find no lie in my tone. No secrets in my voice. I meant what I said: it was already done. Being around her for a few hours hadn’t changed me. I was stronger than that and wouldn’t relapse.
He clapped me on the back. “I believe you.”
And there it was. The one thing I’d wanted all my fucking life.
Trust.
Acceptance.
There was no trace of animosity or disbelief. He’d fully accepted me. I couldn’t be more grateful. I have no intention of jeopardising what I’ve waited so long to gain.
Not for Nila. Not for anyone.
With a fatherly squeeze, Cut moved toward the door and left. The moment he’d gone, Nila turned her glassy black eyes on me. “Please, Jethro. Whatever he’s told you to do—please don’t do it. You know me. I know you. What we have—don’t destroy it.”
Ignoring her, I tapped the glass of the syringe, making sure there were no air bubbles.
“There’s nothing between us, Ms. Weaver.”
“Please!” She sat up, clutching my forearm. “You don’t believe that.”
My temper boiled over. Grabbing her throat, I growled, “Self-control or I will restrain you. Lie. Back. Down.”
Shivering, she shook her head. “What happened to you?” She tried to capture my cheek, but I dodged her grasp.
“Touch me again and you won’t like what happens.” I snatched her bicep. “If you move, this will hurt a lot more than if you’re still.” I poised the needle above the fleshy part of her arm. “And to answer your repetitive question, nothing happened. I’m not doing this because he told me to. I’m doing this because I want to.”
Piercing her skin, I pressed the plunger.
Tears fled to her eyes, twinkling like black stars. She winced as the cool liquid fled from syringe to flesh.
It only took a second to empty the injection. The moment it was gone, I withdrew the needle and tossed it into the stainless steel tray beside the table.
A small droplet of blood swelled from the puncture wound.
Plucking a tissue from the box on the sideboard, I handed it to her.
Taking it reluctantly, she asked sadly, “What is it? What did you just give me?”
I ran a hand through my hair. “Call it a pre-emptive.”
Nila frowned. “Pre-emptive against what?”
“Any plans you might have.”
My temper glowed as I remembered her note to her brother. Had she come to the same conclusion my father had, or was she still blindly believing I felt something for her? Silly, girl.
“I have no plans. I don’t understand.” She swung her legs over the table, rubbing her arm.
I moved closer, pressing both hands against her cheeks, imprisoning her. She shied away, but I slid my fingers behind her skull, wrapping them in the thick strands of her hair.
The touch wasn’t meant to be kind or gentle. It was meant to show who was in power and it was about fucking time she learned that.
“It’s pre-emptive; to make sure the Final Debt will be repaid.”
Colour washed from her cheeks. “What do you mean?”
I cocked my head. “Come on. Don’t continue to play me when you’ve already lost.” Running my thumb along her bottom lip, I whispered, “You were clever, I will admit. But not clever enough. There is nothing you can do to hinder my plans.”
She gasped, her soul falling from her eyes.
She finally understood. “How could you? How could you be so…heartless?”
Tugging her hair, I kissed her jaw. “It was you who saved me from such a stupid notion of feelings. The day you left, I thought my life was over. But then I found a new way—a better way—and I’m no longer your toy to play with.” Pressing soft kisses down her throat, her pulse throbbed beneath my lips. “No more plans. No more games. It was a contraceptive, Nila. Now do you get it?”
Silence.
Her heartbeat exploded, blood gushing, heating her paper-thin skin below my threatening kisses.
“I’ve stolen what you hoped to steal from me, Ms. Weaver. There will be no children. No half-breeds. No saviour. I’ve won.”
“MS. WEAVER, SO nice to meet you.”
My attention snapped to the man wearing designer jeans and a cream tailored shirt. His hair was artfully coiffed, and he’d rimmed his baby-blue eyes with kohl. Thin and handsome, he was obviously gay and perfect for the role of jotting down gossip.
“There will be no children. No half-breeds. No saviour. I’ve won.”
I stared blankly, unable to do anything but listen to the echo of Jethro's voice inside my head.
“I’ve won. I’ve won. I’ve won.”
Tears pricked my eyes for the hundredth time since I’d arrived back at Hawksridge. How could he say that? He’d lost. We both had. Somehow, Cut had turned Jethro into his lap dog and the connection we’d shared gurgled down a drain of despair.
What if I had been pregnant? Would the contraceptive have hurt the baby?
How could Jethro do something so terrible?
I hate it here.
I positively hate it here.
I’d always hated it here.
How could I return with such stupid plans? How did I think I could save Jethro and kill Cut? What an idiot!
Jethro doesn’t even want saving.
Not after what they’d done to him.
“Ms. Weaver? Are you quite well?”
I shook my head, sniffing back unshed tears and doing my best to focus.
Gay Reporter’s assistant smiled, her purple fluffy pen tapping her chin in concern. “Can we get you a glass of water or something?”
“She’s fine,” Jethro murmured in his signature soft voice. I’d forgotten how smooth and precise he was. Forgotten how rigid he held himself, how restrained and contained and arctically frigid.
I shot him a look full of venom. “Actually, I would love a glass of water.”
Jethro pursed his lips as the blonde-haired woman who looked like a delicious cupcake in her pale pink dress and curves sprang from her chair.
She giggled. “I can’t believe I get to play hostess in this place.” Moving to the sideboard where an array of drinks and hors d'oeuvres had been set by invisible staff, she poured me a glass and came back. “Truly, it’s an incredible home you have here, Mr. Hawk.”
I smiled in thanks, taking the offered water.
Jethro shifted on the settee beside me, his temper gathering a tempest. “I’m so glad you like it.” Clasping his hands, he glowered at the reporter. “Are we quite ready to begin? I have a few other appointments that demand my attention.”
Gay Reporter nodded, sitting higher on the mirroring settee opposite us. “Yes, of course.” Revealing tic-tac perfect teeth, he began his well-rehearsed speech. “First, we want to say what an honour it is to be chosen for the exclusive interview. I have no doubt that our readers at Vanity Fair will highly enjoy such an intriguing piece. My name is George, and this is Sylvie.”
His eyes bounced between Jethro and me. “I predict the interview will go on for about thirty minutes, followed by a short tour of the grounds and anything else you wish to share with us for the article. Does that sound satisfactory?”
Sylvie scooped out a voice recorder, iPhone, and notepad and arranged her arsenal on the coffee table.