If I had to listen to one more beg or witness another tear, I’d end up killing her before the fun began.
Nila craned her neck, trying to read the boarding passes in my hands. Flaw, my right hand man and secretary to the Black Diamonds brotherhood, had already checked us in. Along with dealing with shipping my new purchase, The Little Black Dress Harley-Davidson, and staging the runaway scene at Nila’s hotel.
In precisely six hours, a housekeeper would find the photos, notes, and abandoned items, then the gossip columns would spread the story like a well incubated disease.
Nila Weaver’s found love.
Nila dispels rumours she’s in love with her twin by running off with some unknown English aristocrat.
My lips quirked at that. Me? An aristocrat?
If only they knew my upbringing. My history. If only Nila’s father had spent the years he’d had with her preparing her for this day—informing her of our shared heritage, then perhaps she wouldn’t look so fucking ill.
I’d told her the truth. Vaughn and Archibald Weaver were under strict monitoring. If they obeyed and went along with the ruse of Nila leaving for love, all would be harmonious.
If they didn’t—well, the Weaver line would be snuffed out with the aid of a silenced pistol. And we didn’t want that. After all, if there were no more Weavers, who would the Hawks rein over? Who would continue to pay the debt?
I looked at the woman destined to die for the mistakes of her ancestors.
She caught my eye. “Where are you taking me?” Her cheeks were colourless even though she had to be warm with the amount of layers she’d put on.
“I told you. Home.” The word scratched across her face like carving knives. Home to me would be hell to her. I should’ve been more understanding—I could practically hear her heart shatter—but I’d been born into a family where emotion was a weakness. I prided myself on being strong, unbreakable. Empathy was the downfall of any human.
The ability to feel their pain. The nuisance of living their trauma.
That inconvenient ability had been beaten out of me as a child. Lesson after lesson until I embraced the cold.
The cold was emotionless. The cold was power.
Nila sniffed, striding a few steps away. Her curves were hidden in her new wardrobe of dark purple dress that came to her ankles, and a denim jacket. I hadn’t permitted myself to truly look at her. I wasn’t interested in her body. Only what her screams could deliver. She was skinny. Too skinny. But her black hair was thick and begged to be fisted.
Watching her dress in the parking garage irritated me. Her unsureness came across as coyness. Pulling the dress over her skirt was a reversed striptease. Her shaking fingertips had turned the ice in my blood into a lust I hadn’t felt since I stole my brother’s whore and hurt her.
It wouldn’t take much to snap her petite frame. But despite her breakable body, her eyes gave a different story.
She ran deep.
I didn’t bother caring how deep. But it did tempt in a way I hadn’t expected.
A girl like Nila…well, that wasn’t something to be broken lightly.
Her complexities, subtleties, depths, and secrets.
Each layer begged to be shattered and destroyed.
Only once she stood before me, stripped bare of sanity and dreams, would she be ready.
Ready to pay her final debt.
Nila rubbed her cheek, displacing another silent tear. That single fucking tear stopped everything, freezing over the unwanted feeling of excitement at what my future held. Her sniffle gave me a layer of obligation rather than anticipation.
I wasn’t going to, but she’s given me no choice. Fuck it.
Moving closer, my hands opened to throttle her—to give her something to truly cry about, but I restrained myself. Just.
She looked up, eyes glassy.
I forced a smile—a half-smile, letting her believe her tears affected me, offering false humanity. I let her believe I had a soul and didn’t punish her for hoping. Hoping I was redeemable.
She bought it. Stupid girl. Allowing me to offer my arm as if it were some sort of consolation and guide her from purgatory into hell.
THE AIRPORT BAR reeked of sad goodbyes and tears. Just like my soul.
I rolled my eyes. I didn’t like the sort of person Jethro made me. Someone who only saw the negative and was ruled by fear. I’m an award winning designer. I’m wealthy in my own right.
The unknown future crushed my heart, but it was the thought of losing myself while it happened that scared me the most.
“I need a drink. I’ll get you one? too,” Jethro muttered.
I spun to face him. Big mistake. I stumbled to the left, cursing the suddenly tilting room. My vertigo wasn’t normally this bad. An episode a day was my norm, not every time I tried to move.
A cold hand grasped my elbow. “That condition you have—it’s really getting on my nerves.”
The floor steadied beneath my feet; I tore my arm from his hold. “Leave me alone then. Get on the plane and let me fall over in peace.”