Jethro’s voice was low and full of gravel. “You have to mark me in return.”
To brand him. Own him. Command him.
It would be a wish come true. Perhaps, if I tattooed him with my name, I could cast a spell over him to become mine, not theirs. To use him once and for all.
Cut jumped in. “Each firstborn involved in the Debt Inheritance must wear the tally. It’s been that way for generations. I must say I’m enjoying watching Jethro be so obedient. I thought his unwillingness to be marked by a Weaver would mean I’d have to strap him down.”
Jethro threw him a black look.
Waving at Jethro’s awaiting hand, Cut added, “Do it, Nila. Mark him with your initials so even when you’re no longer with us, he will remember his time with you.”
I blinked, unable to stop my heart from squeezing in pain.
No longer here.
When Jethro takes my life.
I wanted to hurl crude threatening insults but held my tongue. We would see who would die by the end of this.
Bending over Jethro’s fingers, the very same fingers that had been inside me, I hexed the heat in my cheeks and twisting desire in my core.
Looking up, I caught Jethro’s gaze. It glowed with need, mirroring mine. How could I hate this man? Positively hate him for doing what he did to my family, yet still want him so badly?
Bastard.
Even now, even in a room full of his flesh and blood amidst talk of murder and debts, he still managed to invoke uncontrollable need from me.
I wanted to stab him with the tattoo gun, not mark him.
Taking a deep breath, I turned on the button and jumped at the powerful vibration of the tool. “How hard do I press?”
“Just like a pen, Nila. There’s no trick. Not for something assimple as this,” Kes said. He hadn’t stopped standing over us, watching everything, saying nothing.
Brushing wayward hair from my eyes, I leaned further over Jethro’s fingers.
The second I pressed the jumping needle against his skin, he locked his muscles. Instead of tensing against the pain though, I sensed he wanted more. He swayed into me, his lungs inhaling deep. I shivered to think he willingly breathed in my smell, imprinting not just my initials but my essence, too.
Biting my lip, I drew on his flesh. My hand shook and sweat dampened my palms. After ten minutes, I sat up and rubbed at the cramp in my lower back.
His index finger held the same torture as mine.
Subtly, I glanced at my burning tattoo. First, Jethro had made me sign the Sacramental Pledge, and then made me sign his body.
If we hadn’t been bound by sin and debts and a lust that refused to be denied, we were now. Locked, joined, and forever linked until one of us died.
It was tragic to think I’d gone my entire life never finding anyone who interested me, only to find such chemistry with a man who I had to kill before he killed me.
Jethro cradled his hand, glaring at the black ink imbedded in his fingertip. He traced the pattern almost reverently. “What’s your middle name?” he whispered. His question was too delicate and imploring for the room full of violence and Hawks.
I wanted to slap him and show him how much he’d slipped from the icy son he was supposed to be.
He looked up, waiting for my answer.
My heart panged. It wasn’t a middle name. It was more than that. I missed the loving address that my father and brother called me. It was who I was. Who I’d been raised to be.
Threads.
“Doesn’t matter.”
