Jethro stood glaring, the outline of his erection visible in his jeans. But there was no hint of the lust he’d suffered, or the passion that blazed between us only seconds before. His unfeeling eyes burned a hole straight into my soul, condemning me for my past treasons and present failures. The longer he stared, the more he undermined my carefully built fortress.
I couldn’t stand the intensity any longer. The humiliation of standing there unwanted, slightly used, and entirely frustrated. With shaking hands, I smoothed down my dress and pushed away from the wall. Without a word, I flicked my hair over my shoulder and skirted around him. With confident steps, I left him behind, heading toward the manor.
He’ll chase. He’ll hunt.
I expected to land on my face from a carefully planned strike. I waited for vertigo to steal my quiet assurance and spiral me to the ground. But nothing happened.
Jethro didn’t pounce, and I didn’t fall.
I was steady for the first time in my life. My body behaved.
My world continued even though I’d been thrown off my axis and into a brand new realm. A realm where sex beckoned like the Holy Grail and my self-hatred magnified a thousand fold.
My empty stomach threatened to steal the remaining strength in my limbs, but I kept going, ignoring my body’s protests, walking like a good little pet to the slaughter.
I didn’t think I was about to enjoy my penance of being a Weaver.
Balling my hands, I made a promise. A promise I hoped would grant me strength for the coming days.
They can’t touch me. I’m not Nila or Threads. I’m done being weak.
My heart swelled as I crested the hill, staring at Hawksridge Hall in all its glory. In that moment, I shed my kitten baby-fur and embraced a new pelt. One that filled me with fight. One that embraced the elongating claws I’d begun to grow.
I was no longer protected by tigers but forced to become one.
I’m Needle, and I will survive.
CONTROL.
I loved it.
I wielded it.
I owned it.
But that little Weaver whore broke my control, turning me into nothing more than a sex-driven idiot. She’d made me throw my decorum, calmness, and carefully laid plans out the goddamn window.
Her timid fingers. Her fluttering breaths. They’d been more of a turn on than the most experienced of lovers. She was so fucking pure she choked on a halo.
And to fucking ask me to teach her? Granting me power by evolving this virginal creature into anything I damn well wanted?
It was temptation.
It was not fucking permitted.
She was mine to take from. Mine to share.
I refused to train her, because in the end I would be the one delivering the killing blow. She wouldn’t succeed in dragging me into whatever game she played.
I breathed hard, even now struggling to find my beloved coldness. I needed an icy shower. I need to teach her a fucking lesson—that’s what I need.
A knock snapped my head up. I spun in place, trading the view of the front gardens to glare at my father. The man who’d taught me how to be the master of my emotions. How to rein in the uncouth part of ourselves and be ruthless with silence. He’d taught me the most—beaten me the most—and I was his favourite.
Thank God there were no cameras by the stables—if he saw how far I fell, his disappointment would bring repercussions. Big repercussions.
My father popped his head into the ‘Buzzard Room’ named for the hand-stencilled wallpaper of hunting buzzards and the mounted carcasses of ducks, swans, and small birds.
It was also the room I’d picked for Nila. This would be her quarters—a room stinking of death and decay.
She’d somehow won the lesson I wanted to teach her at the kennels. She’d managed to make me trade control for the promise of sex. It had worked.
It. Would. Not. Work. Again.
I pitied her really. She’d shown me so much in that brief moment. She was hungry. She was hidden. And she was so damn vulnerable it made me smile to think of her illusions. She thought she could outsmart us.
Us?
Diamond merchants, biker royalty, and proven masters of the Weaver’s fate.
Stupid, stupid girl.
I nodded at my father. “Cut.”
His grey goatee bristled. “Bring her into the dining room when she’s ready. Everyone’s gathered.” He puffed on a giant cigar, wearing a tweed waistcoat and trousers complete with a leather jacket from the Black Diamonds. He looked an enigma of motorcycle world and English aristocracy.
I nodded again.
He left without a goodbye, and I moved to sit on the seventeenth century hand-carved brooding chair. A chair made for men and only men. Complete with ashtray, newspaper stand, and heavy dark brocade designed with our family crest.
Ten minutes later, the door to the ensuite bathroom opened, revealing a freshly showered Nila. Her long black hair draped like ink staining her naked shoulders. She looked younger, innocent without the heavy makeup smeared from last night. Her eyes were bigger, like black unhappy pools whilst her skin glowed a natural dusky tan.
I’d seen her in magazines. I’d run a fingertip over her snapshot in the fashion columns but never found her attractive. She didn’t have breasts. She always stood like a fading shadow next to her brother and looked too prim and stuck up.
She was nothing to me.