Go? Go where? Home? To the nearest black market and buy a bazooka to destroy them?
Kes moved closer, crowding me so I had a Hawk in every direction. “It won’t hurt. Much.”
Jethro snapped.
Soaring upright, he shoved Kes away and snatched the Tally Box from Daniel. “You’re fucking suffocating us. Give us some space, for Christ’s sake.”
My heart twitched.
Jethro’s temper was lethal, his position in the family high up the ranking pole, but the passion underlying his command sounded suspiciously like he’d picked my side over them.
I should’ve been overjoyed.
I should’ve done everything in my power to thank Jethro and encourage him to fall for me.
But I had nothing left but hate.
Kes chuckled. “Don’t worry, Jet. Just trying to make it easier on Nila.” He planted his hand on Jethro’s shoulder, squeezing tight.
I expected Jethro to shrug him off and punch him. Instead, he relaxed slightly, nodding as silent communication ran between the brothers.
What the hell does Kes know about Jethro? And how does he use it so effortlessly to keep his brother calm?
Daniel stole my hand, running a sharp fingernail along the centre of my palm. I jumped, gasping in pain and surprise. I yanked my hand back, trying to dislodge the crazy creep.
No way did I want him infecting me.
A hand was the one part of a person’s body that touched so much. The first point of contact for new experiences. A five-fingered tool to get through life.
“Stop touching me.”
Jethro slapped his brother’s hand aside, allowing me to tuck my palm between my legs.
Cut growled, “Stop chitchatting and get it done. You have five seconds to decide where the tally will go, Ms. Weaver. Otherwise, I shall decide for you.”
Jethro sucked in a harsh breath, watching me from the corner of his eye.
Your fingers.
What? I shook my head at the idea. It was a stupid place for a tattoo.
It makes sense.
My reasoning laid out my conclusion in crystal clarity.
I intend to use my hands to slaughter them in the future.
If my fingers wore their mark—bore the signs of pain extracted at their whim—it was only fair that they extracted pain in return. My hands were currently virgins in murder, but soon they would smother in their blood.
It’s only fitting to wear their tally while I steal their lives.
My eyes fell on Jethro.
Even him?
I steeled my heart against whatever desire existed between us.
Even him.
Sitting straight, I announced, “My fingertips.”
Jethro scowled. “Out of anywhere on your body, that’s where you’ve chosen?”
I nodded. “Yes.” I spread my hands, silently cursing the shake in them. “One fingertip per debt.”
I just hope there aren’t more than ten to repay.
Daniel smirked again. “Not a place I would’ve chosen, but it does leave your body open for more marks in the future.”
I narrowed my eyes.
“Put your hand on my leg, palm up.”
“I’m not touching you.”
Lightning quick, Daniel snatched my wrist, twisted my arm until my palm was as he requested, and slammed it against his thigh.
“Keep it there,” he ordered.
My skin crawled. I went to pull away, but Cut said quietly, “Do as you’re told, Ms. Weaver.”
Jethro sucked in air, his ire buffeting me. “This isn’t how tradition states.” His head shot up to face his father. “Cut, I should be the one—”
Cut’s features blackened. “There are a number of things you should be doing, Jethro. Yet you don’t do any of them. What makes you so eager to do this one?”
I looked between the men, all the while trying to forget my hand rested on Daniel’s thigh. Apprehension bubbled in my chest as he pressed a button on the side of the tattoo gun. Immediately the machine hummed with life.
Vertigo swirled in my blood at the thought of being permanently marked. I’d never had a tattoo, nor did I want one.
Jethro leaned forward. “This is my right.”
His eyes met mine.
My tummy twisted.
My skin ached to be touched, to be kissed, to be bruised with lust.
Gritting my teeth, I shoved away those treasonous thoughts. I forced myself to focus on my mother’s tombstone. Instantly, every desire fizzled into ash.
Daniel tore open an alcoholic wipe with his teeth, and swiped the disinfectant across the tip of my finger, breaking our connection. He grinned, holding up the buzzing gun. “Ready?”
“Cut!” Jethro growled.
I squeezed my eyes, biting my lip in preparation of the pain.
“Stop.”
My eyes tore open at Cut’s angry command.
“Enough, Daniel. Make Jethro do it. Can’t break tradition, after all.”
Daniel threw a disgusted look at his father. “You were never going to let me do it, were you?”
Cut glowered at his youngest offspring. “Watch what you say.”
Jethro shifted to the edge of the couch. “Give me the gun.”
Daniel ignored him.
His father snapped, “Daniel, give the gun to your brother.”
A glaze of inhumanity and insanity flickered across his eyes. Without permission, I stole my hand back, grateful it no longer had to touch his horrible leg.
I’m living in a madhouse.
Jethro snatched the gun. The vibrating equipment settled between his fingers.
Twisting to face me on the couch, he raised an eyebrow, looking between my hand and his leg.
Ugh.
Obediently, I placed my hand on Jethro the exact same way it’d been on Daniel. The moment I touched him, he sucked in a breath. I tried to ignore the awareness snapping between us. I tried to fight the lashing heat.
I no longer wanted it—not after yesterday.
But it seemed Jethro couldn’t control it, either. He bowed over my hand, unsuccessfully hiding the thickening hardness between his legs.
Licking his lips, he focused on my hand. His cool fingers imprisoned my index—the one without a Band Aid on from pricking myself while measuring out material—and pressed the tattoo gun against my skin.
Ouch.