I slipped deeper into shadows as the man nodded.

He said something that made her convulse and a fresh wash of tears flow.

Then my heart stopped beating as the man gathered her into a hug.

The man…

It was Flaw.

DIARY ENTRY, EMMA Weaver.

I found out what happened to Bryan’s brother today. I don’t think he meant to tell me, but I’ve learned how to manipulate him so occasionally he slips. I wouldn’t normally write that, but tomorrow…it’s all over. I’ve seen where they’ll do it. Bonnie took great pleasure in having me weave the basket that will catch me. I’m beyond thinking about how sick everything is. I tried my best. I pretended to care for Cut. I made him believe I was in love with him. I willingly shared his bed and portrayed the besotted woman around his family. But it was all a lie. You hear that, you evil son of a bitch? If you’re reading this, then good riddance. At least you can’t touch me anymore. You told me things I doubted you would’ve if you knew that every time you touched me, I wanted to slaughter you with my bare hands. You wouldn’t have let me into that frosted heart of yours if you knew that every time you slipped inside me, I gave myself over to the devil, all for him to fulfil one promise.

You won. But one day, you won’t. One day, your sins will catch up with you and it will all be over. My daughter is already twice the woman I am, and she’s still so young. If you go after her, it will be the last thing you ever do. I swear it on every religion, every sanctified God. You will die, Bryan. Mark my words, you will die—

A noise sounded outside my room.

My head wrenched up. My breath came hard and fast. I ached with the pain my mother had transcribed in the Weaver Journal. Somehow, she hadn’t used ink—she’d used her desperation and frustration. Her emotion throbbed from the pages, fisting around my heart. It made me angry, so damn angry that I wasn’t there to save her.

She’d done what I had.

She’d made Cut fall for her—just like I’d gone after Jethro—to control him.

Only, unlike Jethro, Cut hadn’t been so easily broken.

He’d still carried out the Final Debt. He’d killed the woman he was in love with.

And all for what?

The noise came again.

My pulse skyrocketed. With shaking hands, I closed the journal and slid it beneath the covers.

After the lawyers’ visit, I’d headed to the kitchens and stockpiled food. I didn’t know how often I’d be locked in my room in this new world without Jethro.

He’s dead.

He’s dead.

He’s…not coming back.

I balled my hands, forcing the grief to stay away.

No matter how often I thought about him, I always thought of him as alive and only a corridor away.

My brain played tricks on me. Whenever the old Hall creaked, I heard my name whispered in the walls. Whenever the wind whistled and twitched my curtains, I heard him beg for me to find him.

I was slowly going mad.

I can’t. Not yet. I have a job to do first.

I focused on the door to my room, ears straining for the noise. After my raid on the kitchens, I’d hauled my stash back to my quarters. The cook had given me a canvas bag to cart canned fruit, cured meat, packaged biscuits, and cereal. I’d hidden the food in the cupboard where I stored my needles, thread, and ribbon.

If they meant to trap me, at least I wouldn’t starve to death. I could stay strong and wait to strike them down.

Once I’d prepared myself for war, I’d deliberated if I should message my father. I’d wanted to tell him how much I loved him. How fortunate we were that this might be over soon.

If Vaughn and I died …there would be no more Weavers. No more children to torment.

The debt would end for our lineage—some other poor Weaver blood would pay.

Not the way I would’ve chosen, but it was a conclusion I had to live with, a legacy I had to leave.

Jethro.

My heart fisted, but my eyes remained dry.

The noise came again.

It was slight but there.

A scratching, scurrying sound.

Rats, perhaps?

Or one rat in particular.

My heart clanged.

Daniel.

Had he come to honour his promise of raping me tonight? Our private meeting away from the view of Jasmine and Cut?

I looked at the windows. Pitch-black reflected my room in perfect symmetry, distorting colourful fabric, swirling them into some kaleidoscopic artwork.

After the meeting, a thunderstorm had crashed over the estate, drenching everything in damp darkness. I’d had my lights on ever since, reading and engrossed in the Weaver Journal.

Only select generations had added to the large tome. My mother hadn’t been diligent, and other snippets weren’t signed. It made me wonder if the Hawks gave them an outlet for truth, rather than used it against them. It wasn’t a requirement to write—but a choice.

My eyes darted to the clock above the turquoise fish tank.

11:00 p.m.

Shit!

Scrambling out of bed, I darted across the room. My bare feet padded over thick carpet, and the leggings and cardigan I’d worn all day were rumpled. My back and quads ached from the exercise I’d endured after returning to my room.

I hadn’t been for a run, but I had used every muscle in my body.

How? By protecting myself.

My door suddenly swung open, slamming against the dresser I’d painstakingly emptied and pushed in the smallest increments across the carpet. The ancient wood weighed a ton, but I’d spent hours shoving it across the room—just in case.