Debt Inheritance

Which was perfect, because the next time wouldn’t be for pleasure. It would be for pain. And permission would take the fun away.

She froze, locking her knees. The heavy cloud when she suffered a stupid balance attack swirled in their brown depths. Sucking in a breath, she said quietly, “No, you don’t. You’ve told me countless of times. You’ve made me very aware of what you think of me, and I’m sick of hearing it.”

Pushing away the newspaper stand, I took my time glancing down her body.

She didn’t fidget or blush which pissed me off. I wanted her nervous. I wanted her terrified of what was to come.

I stood up slowly, clicking my tongue. “Ah, ah, ah, Ms. Weaver. Don’t take that tone with me. You’re the failure. You’re the prisoner. You take what I give you. You do not assume to have any say or authority. That includes listening to everything I deem important to tell you.” Ghosting to a stop in front of her, I murmured, “Is that quite understood?”

I flexed my muscles, welcoming back the soothing chillness of control. I hadn’t liked stepping outside my confines of civility. Things got messy when silence was disrupted. Things got rushed when tempers rose and curses flowed.

And I didn’t want to rush her undoing. I wanted to savour it. Devour it.

Running a fingertip along her damp shoulder, I smiled at her flinch. “Did you do as I asked and wash your filth away?”

Her lips pursed, anger glowed in her eyes. But she swallowed it down, muting the light. “Yes.”

“Did you leave your pussy alone? No trying to finish what I started?”

Her head hung a little lower. “Yes.”

My finger followed the contour of her shoulder, tracing down her arm. She stood silently, hiding the wild creature from before, depicting quiet sexuality and vulnerability. My mouth watered again, but it wasn’t with need to shove her against the wall and drive my dick inside that tight, tight cunt. No, it was because I’d never made someone with her skin colour bleed. Would her blood be darker? Would it be a rich chocolate like her eyes?

I knew her family tree. I’d studied it in preparation. Her bloodlines weren’t pure—there was mixed race in her past. A blend of Spanish and English. Another reason why Hawks were better. We were one hundred percent English stock. Unsullied.

Nila looked into my eyes. Her skin broke out in goosebumps. “Stop whatever you’re doing and let me get dressed. Where are my clothes?” She clutched the silver towel harder, hiding everything but her longer than average legs and tiny feet. “I need to charge my phone. I want my suitcase.”

I didn’t bother caring who’d she’d texted last night to drain her battery. There would be no cavalry coming to her rescue—of that I was completely sure. “You’ll receive your belongings if you please us.”

“Us?”

Stepping back, I smoothed my shirt, taking my time in delivering the truth. I hoped she’d move away—run even—after all, I was a hunter at heart. But she locked her knees again, standing firm on the thick mahogany carpet.

“Yes. Us.” Holding out my palm, I waited. “Take my hand.”

She hesitated, hoisting her towel higher, her tiny fist jammed against her small breasts.

I looked forward to making her obey, but then the aloofness I’d briefly witnessed in the kennels came over her features—blotting out the fire, turning her into an obedient robot.

Slowly she did as I requested, placing her slightly damp hand in mine.

The moment I had her, I marched across the bedroom floor. She gasped, jerked into motion, her legs darting to keep up. Silently, I wrenched open the door and stalked down the huge corridor, past shields and lances and crossbows, to the end of the bachelor wing where the Black Diamond brotherhood met once a week in a club meeting called the Gemstone.

This afternoon it wasn’t business being discussed. It was Nila.

This was her welcome luncheon.

A tradition unbroken for hundreds of years. An esteemed event that all our brethren knew and immensely enjoyed.

The day they all sample a Weaver.

Slamming my palm against the double doors, I jerked Nila into the room. She wheeled to a stop, her face losing its colour in favour of snowy white. I searched her features for fear. I hunted for terror, but I only witnessed blank resignation.

Turning away from her, I focused on what she couldn’t look away from.

Men.

Twenty-seven to be exact. Some smooth faced and young, others bearded and old. Some rich and well-spoken, others destitute and filthy. But they all had something in common. They belonged to the Diamonds and were our most trusted employees. Flaw, Fracture, and Cushion weren’t present nor were they fully fledged members—their task was to watch Vaughn and Archibald Weaver from doing anything…reckless.

Nila struggled, trying to take her hand back. I clamped my fingers around her, not giving an inch. “Don’t be rude, Ms. Weaver. Say hello and be courteous. This is, after all, your welcome lunch.”

She jolted, shying backward, testing my hold.

My father sat at the end of the extremely long table. The room was huge. Decorated with gold-spun drapery and massive oil paintings of my ancestors, it glittered with crystal chandeliers and silverware.

The paintings were of male Hawks only. The women of my family tree were designated to another room. Still celebrated, but not nearly as important.

Each artwork showed a man of distinguished wealth and intolerable power. I’d studied them in great length this past month, preparing for Nila’s arrival. My favourite was Samuel Hawk. The third man to extract a debt.

I looked just like him.

Snapping his fingers, my father called the small murmurs of masculine voices to attention. Pointing at Nila trembling beside me, he said, “Brothers, this woman will be our guest for the foreseeable future and in honour of her company, we have something special planned.”

The men grinned, reclining in their chairs, ready for the show to begin. The hiss and crackle of the log fire added a cheery background noise as well as welcome heat to the cavernous room.

Nodding at me, he said, “Jet, if you would be so kind as to make sure our guest is appropriately attired.”

Pleasure.

This might be tradition but it was also payback for what she’d made me become earlier today. This was sweet retribution.

Dropping Nila's hand, I moved toward the large side table that held crockery, wine glasses, and decanters. The food that’d been prepared by the full kitchen in the other wing of the house waited on the matching sideboard across the room. There were countless dishes, at least seven courses, but no wait staff to present it.