And talk to Kite.
My heart thumped. He wasn’t kind or a sympathetic ear to cry to. But I was glad. I didn’t want someone to pat my back and make me feel worse with commiseration. I needed someone to tell me to buck up, keep going, and never wallow in darkness.
Kite didn’t know it yet, but I planned to use him as my barometer of liveliness. If I could muster up the energy to flirt and chat and pretend everything was okay, I had the strength to continue. The moment I used him as an outlet to purge whatever Jethro did to me, I would know I needed to re-centre myself and dig deeper to stay true.
Jethro let my hand go, tossing it away almost violently.
I breathed a sigh of relief, then stiffened as his fingers latched around my upper thigh.
Whispering harshly, he said, “Keep watching the horizon, Ms. Weaver. You’re about to see your new home.” His hand crept up my leg, following the same path his brother had—freezing my exposed skin with his icicle-like fingers. “Don’t take your eyes off the windscreen. You behave and I’ll make sure you have somewhere warm to sleep tonight. You disappoint me and you’ll sleep with the dogs.”
I bit my lip, eyes flaring wide.
Sleep in a kennel? Shit, Nila. You couldn’t be any more stupid.
All this time I’d braced myself for sexual payments—bodily taxes and unwanted attention—but in reality I hadn’t stopped to think about the bare essentials of living. There was so much more Jethro could do to me than torment my body.
He could deprive me of nutrition.
He could prevent me from sleeping.
He could make me live in squalor and suffer illness after illness.
Daniel stayed facing the front, ignoring us. I risked my first question since the airport bar.
“You aren’t just going to use me. Are you?” My voice sounded strange after not speaking for so long.
Jethro stilled, his fingers twitching on my inner thigh. “So na?ve. You’re worse than a pet. You’re like a child. A loveless girl who knows nothing of the big, bad world.” Breathing shallow, his hand moved higher and higher. “Pity I’m not turned on by little girls. Pity you don’t get me hard, my loveless, clueless Weaver. Then you might’ve been prisoner in my bed.”
In front of us, the car’s headlights illuminated a driveway. The woodland stopped, giving way from thicket to a huge expanse of manicured lawn and a large oval fountain. Birds of prey replaced angels and fair maidens, their talons dancing on top of water spray.
Jethro’s hand burned, never stopping his slow assault. My heart jack-knifed, pain shooting in my chest as panic replaced my blood. I’d wanted sexual contact for so long but not like this. Not taken. Not even wanted.
The car slowed, skirting around the fountain. We turned left, following the sweeping driveway.
And that was when I saw it.
The monstrosity that was my so-called new home.
The rising monolithic, French turreted, tower fortified, sweeping, soaring mansion. Tarmac turned to gravel beneath the tyres, pinging against the metal panels below. Jethro’s fingers crept higher, demanding I pay attention to everything he did.
“Welcome to Hawksridge Hall, Ms. Weaver. It’s going to be a pleasure entertaining you as my guest.” The sentence wrapped around me like a noose; my eyes snapped closed as his fingers brushed my core. Firm, unyielding, he cupped me through my knickers, sending snow to my womb with his vile fingers.
I bit my tongue, hating him. Hating myself. Hating everything to do with debts and vendettas and family feuds.
“This is what you wanted, isn’t it?” Jethro whispered, pressing harder, forcing the seam of my knickers into my sensitive, barely experienced *.
Everything clenched, repelling against his awful ministrations.
I tore my eyes open. “Not like this.” Dropping my voice, I locked eyes with him. “Please, not like this.”
The car rocked to a stop.
Daniel looked over his shoulder, his gaze dropping to the blatant position of Jethro’s hand between my legs. He smirked. “Welcome to the family. Don’t know how much you’ve been told about us, but forget everything.” His teeth glinted in the pooling light from the mansion. “We’re much worse.”
Jethro stroked me, drifting down to where the silk of my underwear gave a little, pressing against my entrance. “He’s right. Much worse.”
I shuddered as his finger bit into me. The unhurried, controlled way he touched me twisted with my mind. His violation was different than his brother’s. Still not wanted, but at least more easily tolerated.
He was the devil I knew. Not the devil I didn’t. In a morbid way, that made Jethro my ally rather than tormentor.
“I’ll look forward till we meet again, Weaver.” With another smirk, Daniel shoved open his door and disappeared.
Jethro’s fingers rocked into me, but I refused to give him any reaction—neither upset nor regret. Sitting with my hands balled, I asked, “Why are you doing this?”
Jethro chuckled. “The ultimate question. And now that we’re home, you’re about to be told.” Removing his hand, he opened the car door and climbed out.
All the blood in my body rushed between my legs—almost as if every molecule needed a cleansing—searching for relief from the hot, cold, tempting, vile way he’d touched me.
He looked so elegant in his dark grey suit, so refined with the glint of diamond on his lapel. Why did someone so horrid look so beautiful? It wasn’t fair. Nature’s cruel irony. In jungles, birds died from being attracted to the gleam of cavernous flowers. In rainforests, snakes and omnivores succumbed to toxin-riddled-jewelled frogs.
Beauty was the ultimate arsenal. Beauty was meant to deceive. It was meant to trick and beguile so their prey never saw death coming.
It worked.