Debt Inheritance

An alley?

He couldn’t mean what he’d threatened…could he?

You want me to make you scream.

I fought harder. But no matter how much I struggled, he didn’t break his stride or look back.

Tripping forward, I winced as my flesh bruised beneath his hold. I angled my nails, preparing to drag them over his forearm, but he stepped onto the curb and yanked me forward. The inertia propelled me into a spin, slamming me painfully against his motorcycle.

My black hair whirled over my shoulder, sticking to the fear perspiring on my chest. I struggled to keep up—to believe how stupid I’d been. I prided myself on being smart, but I allowed the temptation of sex to cloud my judgement.

Jethro glowered; his suit as crisp as his unflappable control. “My information is perfectly correct. And you are going somewhere with me. Climb on.”

I tore my elbow from his hold and shoved his chest. “Wrong. Let me go.”

He growled under his breath. “Stop, before you get hurt.”

I pushed him again, focusing on the ridiculousness of my night, rather than the rapidly expanding terror in my heart. “I told you. I came in a limo; there is no way I can travel on a two-wheeled death machine.”

Jethro rolled his shoulders, maintaining his cool. “I gave you one rule—never ask questions. I’m giving you another—don’t ever argue with me.”

My heart raced. Glancing around, I searched for late night stragglers, party goers, moon-light walkers—anyone who could intervene and save me. The roads were empty. No one. Not even a scurrying rodent.

“Please, I don’t know what game you’re playing—”

He shook his head, exasperation in his eyes. “Game? This isn’t a fucking game.” Glaring at my dress, he encroached on my space. Pressing his lips together briefly, he muttered, “I hope you’re wearing something beneath this.”

My lungs stuck together. “What? Why?”

“Because you’re going to be indecent if you’re not.” With a savage jerk, he tore the endless seams, stitching, and hard work of my dress. The rip sounded like a scream to my ears. Horror swarmed as the outer layer fluttered to the ground, followed by organza, feathers, and beadwork.

My jaw hung open. “No—”

Jethro spun me around, his hands skating over my lower back. “You’re like a damn pass the parcel.” With strong fingers, he tore the second layer of heavy ebony silk.

The sound of shredding broke my heart. All that work! My father would be pissed to see his expensive material littering the dirty pavement. My blood existed in the needlepoint from pricking my fingers. My tears soaked the train from overworking. He couldn’t do this!

I couldn’t speak—struck mute by shock.

“Good God, another?” Jethro spun me back to face him. I swished in the remaining starchy petticoats—the tool beneath the dress that granted such volume.

I can’t do this anymore.

I plastered my hands down my front, seizing the remainder of my gown. “No, pleas—”

Jethro ignored me. With one last brutal tug, he tore the petticoat off, disposing it on top of the already ruined layers.

Tears glassed my eyes. “Oh, my God. What did you do?” The cool Milan air swirled around my naked legs, disappearing up the thigh-length satin skirt I wore to prevent chafing from the petticoat underwire. My entire ensemble—destroyed. I’d been the only female in a household of men. I’d spent an entire lifetime covering up my girlish body with lace and camisoles and tulle. Femininity was something I created rather than lived. To see it demolished on a filthy sidewalk enraged me to the point of tyranny.

Gone were my tears. I embraced furiousness. “How could you?!”

Shoving him away, I fell to my knees, trying to gather the rhinestones and swatches of handmade lace. “You—you ruined it!” All around scattered couture fashion. Diamantes glittered on bland concrete. Feathers twitched, dancing away on the breeze.

“I’ll ruin a lot more before I’m through.” Jethro’s barely uttered words existed, then…didn’t, snatched by a gust of wind.

I glared up at the man I’d stupidly returned for—all because a stranger hurt my feelings. A man I’d allowed to manipulate me and make me heinously wet in a coffee shop. “Does it make you feel better? Destroying other’s things? Don’t you care that you just ruined something that took hours upon hours to create? What sort of cruel—”

“Stop.” He held up a finger, scolding me like a little child. “Rule number three. I don’t like raised voices. So shut up and stand.”

We glared; silence was a heavy entity between us.

He was right. I was so, so stupid. He’d successfully hurt me more than anyone since my mother left. His callousness gave no room for hope or tears. And I knew it all along. I’d seen his coldness. I’d felt his hardened will. Yet it didn’t stop me from being an utter fool.

Grabbing a puddle of cloth, I yelled, “Leave me alone!”

“Goddammit, you’re testing me.” He ducked suddenly, grabbing my bicep and hauling me to my feet. He shook me—hard. My corset dug into my hipbones now that it had no bustle or layers to rest upon.

“You don’t get to ask any more questions. You don’t get to yell or act ridiculous. This is happening. This is your future. Nothing you say or do will change that—it will only change the level of pain you receive.” He shoved me backward against his bike. “Your dress is conveniently no longer an issue. Get on. We’re leaving.”

Fury exploded through my heart, thankfully keeping my terror at bay.

Don’t think about his threat. Focus on making him yell. Loudness. I needed commotion to garner attention and safety. The more nuisance I made, the more likely someone would come to my rescue.

“You just ruined my showpiece. That dress was already sold to a high-end boutique in Berlin! You think I want to go anywhere with you after you ruined over two months’ worth of work? You’re insane. I’ll tell you how this is going to go—”

“Ms. Weaver, shut the fuck up. I’m done with this charade.” His face remained impassive, but the muscles beneath his suit bristled. Moving horribly fast, he tugged my long, unfettered hair, crowding me against his bike. Wincing against the pain in my scalp, I tripped, splaying over the leather seat.