Final Debt

A terrified lump lodged in my throat. “They’ll catch me.”

Cut shook his head. “I have full belief you’ll be fine. The nervous sweats will be blamed on the new break. The waxy pallor of your cheeks on overwhelming pain. They might ask you questions, but they won’t find anything untoward with the cast. You’ll see.”

Tears prickled my eyes at the trials I still faced. My lips twisted with hate. “You could’ve just put me in a fake cast. No one would know the difference.”

Cut cupped my face, holding me firm. “Wrong. People can tell. Liars are spotted easily in airports. And besides, we’ll have an extra arsenal that will prove our tale isn’t false.”

I ripped out of his hold, gasping at more pain. “What’s that?”

Cut inspected inside the bucket, lifting out the plaster strips to rest in a plastic tray. “We’ll have x-rays stating your accident, evidence of the fracture, and time and date.”

My eyes widened. “How?” I scoffed at the dirty cave. “You’re telling me you have a state of the art x-ray machine down here, too?” A half-crazed, half-diabolical laugh escaped me. “Not only a diamond smuggler but doctor, biker president, and doting father as well. Is there anything you can’t do?”

Cut narrowed his eyes. “Careful, Nila. Just because you’re in pain, it doesn’t mean I can’t discipline you. I demand respect at all times. You’d do well to remember that while we travel home together. When you go through security, I’ll be with you. When you board and land, I'll be beside you. You won’t be free and you’d be wise to hold your tongue.” He pointed a finger at Jethro. “Otherwise, he doesn’t live like I promised. Obey me, and he survives. Pull something stupid and he dies.” He shrugged. “Stupidly simple.”

Stupidly simple?

How about I kill you on the plane?

That would be stupid as I’d end up in jail for the rest of my life. But so simple because Cut would no longer be breathing.

I laughed sarcastically. “Sounds as if you’ve thought of everything.”

His forehead furrowed, but he didn’t respond. Instead, he ignored me in favour of inserting the diamond packets and layering soft padding over the compartments. Even if airport security shone a light or poked a stick in my cast, they wouldn’t find the stones.

Cut held up the tampered cast. “Now you can place your arm inside.”

My heart raced, but I did as I was told, breathing a sigh of relief as the gentle cushioning helped soothe some of the pain.

Cut grinned. “See, I told you I’d make it right.”

My voice transformed into scissors, cutting him into pieces. “Just because you’re tending to me now doesn’t mean I forgive you for before.”

Jethro groaned, dragging my attention to him. His beautiful golden eyes were dull and anger-filled. Love linked us together, forged stronger despite such adversity.

He’d proposed to me.

I’d say yes to him.

Yet, horribly, time was running out.

Once Cut had immobilized my injury, I had no doubt we wouldn’t be in Africa much longer. He would want to get home. He would want to finish whatever else he’d planned.

Will he carry out the Final Debt before he partakes in the Third?

I shuddered. How wrong was it that I hoped he would kill me instead of rape me? I should value my life over anything my body was subjected to. But having Cut inside me wouldn’t just be physical; it would be mental and spiritual, too. It would mess me up completely knowing he’d been with my mother and killed her. Then done the same with me.

I’ll kill him before that happens.

The memory of stabbing Daniel in the heart granted me a much-needed boost. I’d been terrified of him. Yet, I’d won. I could do the same with Cut.

Cut pressed down on my arm, making me cry out with pain. I flinched, trying to pull away. “Stop!”

His strong fingers ceased tormenting me. “Just making sure you’re wedged comfortably.”

“Bastard.” The curse fell beneath my breath.

If Cut heard me, he didn’t retaliate.

Letting me go, he layered another lot of padding on top of my arm, followed by the gauze. He wrapped it around and around, binding my arm into its new prison. Once it was secure, he placed surgical gloves on his fingers, and pulled out a strip of plaster from the drying tray.

“Don’t move.”

I didn’t respond as he industriously wrapped warm, wet plaster around my broken limb. The chemical reaction offered hot comfort to the throbbing ache, and I relaxed a little as the painkillers worked their magic.

It didn’t take long. In the past, the doctors would wrap three or four layers of plaster around my cast, ensuring no way could I break or damage myself further. However, Cut only wrapped two layers, finishing off the top with a gauze sleeve, smoothing the plaster with wet fingers.

“There. Don’t twist or move your arm for sixty minutes while it hardens.”

I wanted to laugh. He knew how to apply basic medical help. But his bedside manner was atrocious. No doctor had ever caused his patient’s injury in the first place.

Sitting upright after leaning forward for Cut to work on my cast, I held it away from me to dry but wanted to hug it close. For some reason, a hug—even from me—helped the pain fade.

My eyes soared to Jethro. His face was red and furious; his eyes glassy with sorrow.

I’m fine.

You’re not.