Shit, what do I do? I had to run. Run!
But I couldn’t. Not now he’d threatened my family. Not now my brain had unlocked a memory adding weight to Jethro’s lunatic suggestions. Not now I believed.
A debt.
I didn’t know what it was. It could’ve been code for something I didn’t understand or literal and requiring payback. But one thing I knew, I couldn’t risk not obeying.
I loved my family. I adored my brother. I wouldn’t chance their lives. Not after this so-called debt broke up my parents’ marriage and happiness.
I jumped as the ignition growled to life, tearing through the silence, and somehow granting me strength in its ferocity. Kicking the stand away, Jethro took the weight of the bike.
He didn’t wear a helmet or offer me one. I expected him to turn around and deliver more information or demands, but all he did was reach behind, steal my arm, and place it around his hips. The moment my hand rested on him, he let me go, unknowingly giving me a safe harbour but with an anchor I already despised.
I looked longingly at the building where my brother and father mingled with fashionistas and the only world I knew. I silently begged them to come running out and laugh at my stunned, fear-filled face yelling ‘we fooled you.’
But nothing. The doors remained closed. Answers hidden. Future unknown.
I’m alone.
I’m being stolen for a debt only I can repay. A debt I know nothing about.
I was idiotic to wish for more than what I had.
Now, I had nothing.
With a twist of his wrist, Jethro fed gas to his mechanical beast and we shot forward into darkness.
The Milan airport welcomed me back.
It felt like an eternity since I flew in, though in reality it’d only been two days. My skin was icy, and despite my repellent dislike for Jethro, I hadn’t been able to stop huddling against him while he broke speed limits and took corners at hyper-speed on his death machine. My tiny skirt and sleeveless corset weren’t meant for gallivanting around Milan so late.
Pulling into a short term parking bay, he killed the engine and kicked down the stand. I immediately sat back, unwinding my arms from around his waist.
The fear remained in my heart, growing thicker with every beat. I couldn’t look at the so-called gentleman without swallowing a cocktail of murderous rage and teary terror.
His profile showed a man with a five o’ clock shadow beginning over his jaw, windswept thick hair, and an edge that catapulted him from sexy to dangerous. He stood out from a crowd. He drew need and desire effortlessly. But there was nothing tame or kind or normal. He reeked of manipulation and control.
He’s an iceberg.
The car park wasn’t empty, but it wasn’t rush hour either. Despite the clunking echo of a couple dragging suitcases toward the terminal, the night was quiet.
Jethro climbed off the bike. Once standing, he rolled his neck, rubbing the cord of muscle with a strong hand. His eyes latched onto mine. They looked darker, more autumn leaf than precious metal, but still as cold.
I glowered back, hoping my hatred was visible.
His face remained closed off—not rising to the challenge of a staring war. Holding out his palm, he waited. The way he watched spoke volumes. He didn’t wonder if I’d take his hand. He knew. He believed in himself so damn much everything other than his wish was dismissed as ludicrous.
Too bad for him, I didn’t do well with the silent treatment. V had trained that out of me. Having a boisterous twin armed me with certain skills. And ignoring moody males was one of them.
Swatting his hand, I pushed off from the black leather and landed on bare feet. The brisk concrete bit into my soles. Wrapping my arms around my shivering torso, I muttered, "As if I’d accept your help. After everything you’ve done so far."
Dropping his arm, he chuckled. "So far?" He leaned closer. "I’ve done nothing. Not yet. Wait until you’re in my domain and behind closed doors. Then you might have something worthy of being melodramatic about."
My skills at coping with the future rested on being able to ignore his threats and focus on the now. Standing tall, I said, "I could ask something stupid like why are we at the airport, but I can guess why. However, you failed to think about my schedule—"
"Schedules change."
"I don’t travel alone, Mr. Hawk. I had tickets booked for my brother, assistant, and wardrobe organiser. Not to mention the excess luggage. They’ll be expecting me. Hell, my assistant will be expecting me back at the hotel tonight. All of this—it’s a waste of time. It’s a waste because the police will be told and if you think my father won’t come for me, you’re mistaken."
Even as I said it doubt crept over my soul. Tex Weaver shoved me into this nightmare. Why did I think he’d come and bring me home?
Jethro crossed his arms, lips in a tight smile as if I were amusing and not pointing out valid facts. "There were a multitude of mistakes in that paragraph, but I’ll focus only on the relevant points." Tilting his head, he continued, "Your father is fully aware of everything. Your loyalty to the man who gave you away with no fight is misplaced. His hands are tied and he damn well knows it. As for the police, they have no relevance in your future. Forget about them, your family, hope. It’s over."
His voice dropped to a growl. "Do you know why it’s over? It’s over because your life is over. There’s so much you don’t know, and so much I can’t wait to tell you."
He shed his icy exterior, grabbing my hair and jerking my head back. "You’ll learn about your peerage. Your rotten family tree. And you’ll pay. So shut up, give up, and appreciate my kindness thus far because I’m running low on decency, Ms. Weaver, and you won’t like me when I hit my limit."
My shivers evolved to full blown tremors. "I don’t like you now, let alone in the future. Let me go."
He surprised me by stepping away, releasing me. My scalp smarted, but I refused to rub my head.
"You’re testing me. But lucky for you, I know how to deal with troublesome pets."
Pets?
My hands balled.
How did I ever think I wanted him? The fact his lips had been on my face and his thumb in my mouth repulsed me.
Jethro’s gaze drifted down my state of undress. "You’re shaking. I don’t want you getting sick." His eyebrow quirked. "I’d offer you my jacket, like the chivalrous man I am, but I doubt you’d accept it. However, I have something better."
Spinning around, he drifted toward a deep shadow cast by one of the large pillars. "Flaw? Get out here. You damn well better be—"
"I’m here." A man appeared from the shadows. Dressed in black jeans, shirt, and black leather jacket, the only glint of colour came from a simple silver outline of a diamond engraved on the front pocket. He looked like a thief waiting for a victim. "Been here for forty-five minutes. You’re late." He tossed Jethro a duffel, running a hand through long dark hair. "Lucky for you the flight’s delayed."
Jethro caught the bag, glaring at the man. "Don’t forget your place. I’m not late according to my rules—not yours." Manhandling the duffel, he said, "You did as I asked?"
The man nodded. "Everything. Including photographic evidence. It all went smoothly, and the tickets are inside. I’ll take care of the bike, just leave it there. Cushion and Fracture are tracking the Weaver men until you tell them otherwise."
Jethro pulled out an envelope, then flicked through the contents. He looked up, something resembling a smile gracing his lips. "Good work. I’ll see you back at Hawksridge."
My ears pricked at the name. It sounded familiar—reeking of old money.
He’s from nobility? The concept of Jethro being a duke or an earl was preposterous, and yet…uncannily perfect. Everything about him was deceptive and…bored. Was that all this was? A game to pass the time for some rich brat who got sick of killing puppies?
I couldn’t stop my teeth from chattering—both from disgust and cold. The man named Flaw glanced my way. His eyes narrowed. "
He’s expecting you and the woman. I’ll message and let him know it’s gone well."
"Don’t," Jethro snapped. His English accent thickened with the demand. "He doesn’t need to know. He’ll see us soon enough." Dismissing the man as if he was the hired help and no longer required, Jethro stalked toward me, holding out the bag.
Flaw dissolved back into the shadows like a scary apparition.
"This is yours. Get dressed. You won’t be allowed in the building half-naked and shoeless."
Taking the duffel, I muttered under my breath, "I was dressed in an outfit worth thousands of pounds before you tore it off me." The loss of my showpiece smarted like an open wound.
I had two wishes—one, that he’d heard me and knew just how pissed I was. And two, that he didn’t hear, because I was afraid of his reaction.
Jethro smirked before turning to his bike.
I opened the bag and promptly dropped it.
Oh, my God. I had to be dreaming. Wake up, Nila. Please, wake up.
My knees buckled, following the bag to the floor. Shaking, I collected the photos sitting on top of a mound of clothes. My clothes. Everything I’d brought to Milan—minus the fashion show apparel and my work tools—running gear, a bikini, sweat pants, pyjamas, and a simple collection of blouses, jeans, and maxi dresses.
But on top of it all rested strewn photographs.
Photo-shopped images that never happened.
Doctored snap-shots of lies. Such horrible, horrible lies.
No one will come.
Jethro was right. The police would laugh if anyone asked for their help. What I held cemented my new life being Jethro’s plaything.
Shuffling through the deck, I couldn’t stop a hot tear searing down my cheek.
There was me—smiling, glowing. I remembered the day. V and I had headed to Paris for a local mid-season show a few years ago. He’d beaten me at poker in a silly pub tournament and a patron snapped an image of us. Laughing, overly warm, arms wrapped around each other in sibling affection, we’d been so happy.
Only Vaughn didn’t exist in this photo. The background had been amended to show a fancy restaurant while the man who clutched me was Jethro.
The smile on his face was the warmest I’d seen. His attire of open-neck black shirt and jeans made him look young, in love, and dashing.
I couldn’t study it anymore. Flicking to another one, I slapped a hand over my mouth.
This one pictured my father and me. Or had. He’d splashed out for the annual staff retreat, and we’d gone on a one week cruise around the Mediterranean. We’d stood with the setting sun dancing on the orange tinted waves, dressed in loose fitting ‘cruise wear’ that I’d created only days before. I’d planted an adoring daughterly kiss on his scratchy face.
That kiss now belonged to Jethro.
The ship had been tweaked to show a luxury yacht rather than commercial liner. The sunset cast a different glow. Jethro stood broodily, staring into the camera with such an intense glare of sexual power, no one would disagree that there was chemistry and need between us. The way my body curved into his, the sweetness and trust I displayed, only helped confirm the illusion of a couple besotted with each other.
The photos wobbled in my hands; another tear stained the glossy deception.
I looked up, not caring my heart was ripped out and beating coldly on the car park floor. "How—" Gritting my teeth, I tried again. "Destroying my dress wasn’t enough? You had to steal my past, too?" I held up a photograph of a half-naked Jethro holding my chin as he kissed me. That wasn’t based on my dateless life, but it was so lifelike, so true, so incontestable.
How did they make it so realistic?
Jethro shook his head, rolling his eyes. Locking the bike, he pocketed the keys before turning to face me. Dropping to his haunches in front, he whispered, "I not only stole your past. I’ve already stolen your future."
I breathed hard, hating the look of enjoyment in his gaze.
Never breaking eye contact, he tapped the photographs in my hands. "You didn’t see them all. Flick to the back. They’re especially for you."
I couldn’t unglue my lungs. I didn’t think I’d ever be able to breathe without pain again. Splitting the tower of pictures, I glanced at the last ones. Immediately, I looked up. All sense of decency and pride gone.
"Please, you can’t. This—it will break their hearts."
Tears scalded the back of my throat. My eyes burned, glancing down again. This one showed my empty hotel room—exactly as I left it with last minute ribbon and feathers littering the bed before rushing to the show—but now my toiletries from my nightstand, my laptop, and belongs were gone. Including my carry on and suitcase.
The room was abandoned. It looked as if I’d packed up and left my dreams, livelihood, and family without so much as a backward glance.
This would break my brother and father’s heart, because it was the exact same way of how my mother, Emma Weaver, left us.
But unlike my mother, there was a simple note placed upon the dresser.
"Turn it over. I took the liberty of asking for a close-up, so you can read what you wrote as your final goodbye," Jethro murmured, stealing the photo from my fingers and tapping the fresh one revealed beneath it.
I curled over my knees, cradling the glossy replica of a goodbye letter penned in my hand. The writing was exactly like mine, even I couldn’t tell the forged sweeps and cursive from reality.
It’s time I came clean.
I’ve been lying to you for a while now.
I’ve fallen in love and decided that my life is better with him. I’m done with the deadlines and unachievable pressure placed on me by this family.
I know what I’m doing.
Don’t try and find me.
Nila.
I looked up. My heart collided with my ribcage, bruising, hurting. So much pain. I couldn’t contain the sorrow when I thought of V reading this. To be left behind by both his mother and sister.…
"They won’t believe this. They know me better than anyone. They know I wasn’t in a relationship. You said Tex knows all about you and why you’re doing this. Please—"
Jethro laughed. "It’s not for your family, Ms. Weaver. It’s for the press. It’s for the world stage who will make this fiction a reality. Your brother will find out the truth from your father, I’m sure. And if they behave, they’ll both remain untouched. Believe me, this isn’t to hurt them—if I wanted that, I have much better means." He cupped my cheek, brushing away long strands of my hair. "No. This was just an insurance policy."
"For what?" I breathed.
"So no one believes your family when they break and try to find you. They’ll be all alone. Just like you. Controlled by the Hawks who’ve owned the Weavers for almost six hundred years."
Six hundred years?
"But…"
Jethro sniffed, his temper building like a ghost around us. "Stop crying. The images portray the truth. It proves you did what you did and no one can be angry or distrustful."
"What did I do?"
"Ah, Ms. Weaver, don’t let shock steal your intelligence. You. Left. Voluntarily." He waved at the photo. "This confirms it."
"But I didn’t," I whimpered. "I didn’t leave—"
Jethro tensed. "Don’t forget so soon what I taught you. You are the sacrifice and you…" His eyes dared me to finish his sentence, to admit to everything I’d done by protecting my family. His fingers twitched between his legs, looking like he wanted to strike.
I’d never been good at confrontation—not that my father yelled often or Vaughn and I argued. I’d grown up with no need to fight. I knew how precious my family was. My mother left, proving just how heartless someone could be if they didn’t hold onto love. So I’d held on with both hands, feet, every part of me. Only to have it torn away so easily.
You’d rather they lived and never saw them again than die because of you.
Hanging my head, I murmured, "A sacrifice comes of their own free w
ill, therefore I left voluntarily."
Jethro nodded, patting my thigh like the pet he thought I was. Covering the photos with his large hand, he pressed down until my elbows gave out and I lowered them. "Good girl. Keep behaving and the next part won’t be too hard to bear."
Another rush of tears suffocated me, but I swallowed them back. He’d told me to stop crying. So I would.
Jethro stood, reaching down to scoop up the awful photos and duffel bag of belongings. "Come. We have to go." He didn’t offer me his hand to climb to my feet.
The simple act of raising myself from cold concrete to freezing air taxed my already fractured world. Rolling vertigo pitched my balance, sending me reeling backward. My arms shot out, searching for something to grab hold of.
With drunken eyes, I begged Jethro to catch me, but he just stood there. Silent. Exasperated. He let me trip and fall.
I cried out as I collapsed on the ground. My fingernails dug into the rough flooring, holding on while the parking garage danced around like a nightmarish carrousel. Pain radiated from my hipbone, but it was nothing compared to the overwhelming nausea.
Stress.
It wouldn’t be Jethro who ended up killing me, but the inability to deal with a gauntlet of emotions.
Closing my eyes, I repeated Vaughn’s silly nursery rhyme. Find an anchor. Hold on tight. Do this and you’ll be alright.
"Get up, goddammit. Stop acting the victim." A pinching hand grabbed under my arm, jerking me to my feet.
I doubled over, holding my stomach as another wave of sickness threatened to evict the only food I’d had today—a luncheon prior to the rehearsal of the runway show.
"You’re useless."
When the debilitating wave left, I glared up. "I’m not useless. I can’t control it." Breathing hard, I begged, "Please, let me talk to my brother. Let me tell him—"
"Tell him what? That you’re being taken against your will?" Jethro chuckled. "By the look on your face you seem to think I’ll forbid you having any outside communication—cut you off from everything you hold dear." Letting me go, he scooped my heavy hair from my neck, giving me a reprieve from the sticky heat of not feeling well. "Contrary to what you think, I have no desire to dictate what you can and can’t do."
Captured Boxed Set: 9 Alpha Bad-Boys Who Will Capture Your Heart Page 70
