I was no longer a girl who would bow to her father and submit to her brother. I wasn’t content with letting others be in charge.
I was a fighter.
And I owed Cut Hawk payment for what he’d done.
A fog rolled in over the busy cog-work city of London as we journeyed through ancient streets and new.
Every streetlamp and road sign spoke of home.
Myhome.
My old home.
I knew this place. I’d been born here. Raised here. Trained here.
You also met Jethro when you were too young to remember here.
The car came to a halt outside my family’s sweeping Victorian manor. The whitewashed bricks looked fresh and modern. The lilac windows decorated in my mother’s favourite colour. It was quaintly feminine despite its three-story grandeur.
It’s a dollhouse compared to Hawksridge Hall.
I missed the gothic French turrets and imposing size. I missed the richness and danger that breathed in its walls.
I missed Jethro.
The glass of my window on the second floor winked through the greydrizzle, welcoming me back.
The driver pressed the intercom on the wrought iron gate, barring the Weaver Household from the rest of society. We lived in an affluent end of town. No one asked for a cup of sugar here. Everyone guarded themselves behind camera systems and armed fences.
“Yes?”
The moment my father’s voice came through the speaker, vertigo swooped in and held me hostage. The world spun.
“We’re here, Mr. Weaver.”
A crackle then a panicked bark, “Do you have her?”
The driver threw me a smile. “We have her.”
Chapter Six
Jethro
SOMETHING HARD THUMPED against my chest.
It roused me, dragging me from the bowels of hell and back into a body sobbing with pain.
“Open your eyes, Jet.”
I flinched, fearing another kick or punch. How long had Daniel punished me?
Long enough to break a couple more ribs and swell my left eye completely shut.
“He’s gone.” A presence squatted in front of me—a blurry figure obscured by blood and dirt.
I tried to swallow, but my throat was too dry. Incredibly, a water bottle was pushed into my lifeless hands. When I almost dropped it, Cut wrapped his warm fingers around mine, clasping the bottle tightly.
A wave of compassion and sympathy lapped around my sodden form, forcing my vision to focus. “Tha—thank you,” I whispered brokenly.
