Third Debt

I sucked in a breath. My lungs gasped for oxygen as if I hadn’t breathed since entering Hawksridge. There was clarity and blazing freedom in chopping up our lies, letting them fall around our feet like confetti.

Looking at the carpet, I rubbed the ache in my chest. “I’m done,” I whispered. “If you can’t say anything after I just revealed everything, then there truly is no hope and I refuse to waste—”

Jethro’s breathing turned heavy. He backed away until his spine slammed against the wall. His chin dropped; his hands clutched at the smoothness behind him.

Our eyes met.

A terrible storm howled inside, twisting him into knots. His hands flew to grip his skull, his chest rising and falling with sporadic agony. “What do you want from me, Nila? You want to know that I fucking love you more than I can stand? That I’m breaking because I know I’m not good enough for you? What?”

My world stood still.

“…I fucking love you…”

He admitted it.

A tortured groan echoed around the room as his eyes squeezed.

Fighting to keep it together, he sucked in huge gusts of oxygen.

He fought the truth.

He fought the tears.

He fought himself.

But…

Slowly…

Gradually…

He.

Lost.

The.

Battle.

He cracked.

The dam, the barrier he’d always hid behind, came smashing down. He crumpled like a paper building until he was stripped bare.

My heart hollowed as he shattered into pieces.

“Christ,” he breathed, his voice completely undone. “What have I become?”

He fell.

His knees gave out.

He slid down the wall like a melting glacier.

The moment he hit the floor, his knees came up caging his body, barricading him from the pain he couldn’t handle. His arms wrapped around them, curling into himself, pressing his forehead onto his legs. Hiding.

I stood there unable to move.

“…I fucking love you…”

Then my world turned inside out as Jethro Hawk—the most confusing, complex, and confounding man I’d ever met—started to cry.

His shoulders bunched.

His chest heaved.

He gave up the fight.

The man I feared, adored, and wanted to steal away from a life of emotional blackmail plummeted from lies, and I could see him for the very first time.

His anguished groan ripped out my soul, leaving it bleeding in hell.

His legs moved higher, his arms wrapped tighter, but nothing could hold together what was happening.

Blistering agony clutched me as I witnessed him coming apart. It was if every stitch holding him together ripped open, leaving him gasping and dying.

I wanted to be the needle to sew him back together.

But I couldn’t.

Not yet.

He needed to do this.

He needed to get it out.

This was his unthreading.

This was him becoming more than just a Hawk.

“It’s okay,” I whispered.

I pooled to the floor in a nightgown I didn’t remember him dressing me in, and wrapped myself around his quaking body. “It’s alright.” I rested my forehead on his temple, running my fingers through his hair.

He tried to pull away; he tried to stop his tears, but nothing could stop this.

He was utterly ruined.

Hanging his head, his shoulders quaked as silent tears erupted from his beautiful golden eyes. My stomach twisted as the man I loved came completely undone.

I didn’t let him grieve on his own. I willed him to feel how much I cared, how much I was there for him, regardless of how damaged he was.

He stopped fighting my hold and let loose.

He cried.

As his tears fell, my own dried up. We changed roles. His arctic shell finally thawed—shards of ice broke into smithereens, blizzards became snowflakes, and permafrost became liquid. There was no space inside him anymore; it had nowhere else to go but out.

Out his eyes, his soul, his heart.

I hugged the man who’d done so much wrong and let him purge until his body wracked and shook.

He didn’t make a sound. Not a single gasp or moan.

Utterly silent.

“What did they do to you,” I whispered. “You have to tell me. You have to let it go.”

My hands skated down his back, touching every inch: his face, his throat, his knees. I needed him to know that I brought him to this point, but I wouldn’t abandon him.

I would be there. Through thick and thin.

He didn’t stop crying.

Every quiver and silent sob exhausted me. I wanted to take back every cruel thing I’d said. I wanted to apologise for hurting him and for saying I would stop loving him.

I could never stop loving him.

Never.

He was inside my every cell.

I would never be able to carve him out—even in death.

“Give me your pain. Share it with me.” I wanted to do whatever I could to heal him, to fix him, and make him become the man buried inside.

Jethro suddenly turned in my embrace. Gathering me close, he pushed upward to his feet. I didn’t move as his arms clutched me painfully, stumbling across the bedroom.

The moment the mattress was within tumbling distance, we fell together.

Facing each other, Jethro never let me go. He buried his face in my neck, hiding his wet eyes but unable to disguise the steady trickle of moisture down my throat.

God, I’m sorry. So sorry I broke you.

I squeezed him so damn hard.