“Quiet, Ms. Weaver. I have no patience for your begs.” Stalking toward me, he growled, “You know what is expected of you.”
I searched his gaze for the warmth and golden glow of before.
There was nothing.
Closing the distance, I wrapped my arms around his frigid body. Once again, his extremities were cold. No heat. No liveliness.
“Jethro...please...” Nuzzling into his chest, I willed him to feel my panic, to comprehend how terrified I was of paying another debt.
He balled his hands. “Let me go.”
I snuggled closer. “No. Not until you admit that you don’t want to do this.”
His fingers landed on my shoulders, prying me away from him. “Don’t presume to know what I want.”
“But it’s too soon! The lash marks have barely healed on my back. I need more time.”
Time to mentally prepare.
Time to steal you away.
“How do you know the timeline for what will take place?” Leaning forward, he snatched my wrist and dragged me forward. “You don’t know a thing about anything, Ms. Weaver. There is no script—no right and wrong when another debt can be taken. It’s time.”
The cold finality in his voice siphoned into my blood, delivering a vicious vertigo attack. I fell forward as the room flipped upside down.
I cried out as I stumbled, swaying to the side only for Jethro to jerk me upright.
I hated the weakness inside me. I hated that there was no cure.
I would be afflicted all my life.
Is Jethro the same?
Could whatever he suffer be the same as my vertigo? Incurable, unfixable—something accepted as broken and forever unchangeable?
While I swam in sickness, Jethro dragged me over to the ancient armoire where I’d placed my clothes and shoved aside the hangers to reveal the back panel. Pressing hard on the wood, the walnut veneer sprang open, revealing a secret compartment with hanging white calico shifts.
I moaned, trying my damnedest to shove aside the lingering after effects of the attack, and struggled weakly as Jethro turned his attention to my grey blouse.
Without a word, he undid the pearl buttons, quickly and methodically with no hint of sexual interest or burning desire.
My limbs were endlessly heavy. I lamented the unjust fate of my last name as he pushed my stretchy black leggings to the floor.
Leaving me dressed only in a white lace bra and knickers, Jethro snagged a calico shift and dumped it over my head.
I blinked nauseously as he tugged my arms through the holes as if I were a child.
What was going on? Where was the man who’d held me while he came inside me? Where was the softness...the gentleness?
The minute I was dressed, he demanded, “Take off your shoes.”
I stared into his gaze, looking for a smidgen of hope. I wanted toreach inside and make him care again.
He stood taller, a flicker of life lighting up his features. “Don’t. Just...it’s better this way.” He sighed heavily. “Please.”
I tensed to fight. To argue. But his plea stopped me.
Ironically, I was the one about to be hurt—made to pay a debt I had no notion of—yet he was the one most in pain.
