First Debt

by Pepper Winters

  I shivered, biting my cheek.

  His lips brushed against my ear as his cock twitched against my lower back. “Do you know what they did to thieves back in the 1400s, Ms. Weaver?”

  I closed my eyes, bile scalding my throat.

  Yes, I knew. The methods of law enforcement were a hot subject at school. The Tower of London had extreme inventions for dishing out pain to those who didn’t deserve it.

  “Yes,” I breathed.

  Jethro tugged my fingers. “Care to share?”

  Swallowing, I whispered, “The usual punishment for stealing was hands being cut off, ears nailed to spikes, flogging…all manner of beastly things.”

  My fingers ached beneath his as he squeezed hard.

  Then he stepped back, letting me go. “Can you empathize with my ancestor? Can you tap into the panic he must’ve felt to lose a hand or other body part?”

  I squeezed my eyes, nodding. It would’ve been awful and even worse for the wife as she stood by and watched the love of her life—the same man who had no power to protect her—accept punishment, all for just keeping her alive. A life she probably didn’t even want with rape and destitution as the highlights.

  Jethro said, “This is the easiest debt to endure, Ms. Weaver. But back then, it was one of the worst.” Moving behind me again, his fingers fumbled at the hem of my t-shirt. Pulling it from my skin, he tore it in half with one vicious tug. The crack of the material ripping echoed in the octagonal space.

  I jerked as humid air kissed my naked spine.

  A moan escaped my lips as I finally understood what he would do.

  I wanted to beg for mercy. For him to stop this ridiculous ancient tally and let bygones be bygones, but no sound came as he shoved my tattered t-shirt to my shoulders, exposing my back. His fingers were firm and unyielding as he reached in front and undid the button on my shorts.

  “Please,” I moaned as he undid them and shoved them to my ankles.

  Jethro didn’t reply, nor did he ask me to kick the discarded shorts away. I let them stay—imprisoning my ankles, just like the cuffs imprisoned my wrists.

  Leaving me naked and quivering with fear, Jethro disappeared.

  I didn’t try to follow him with my eyes. I kept them squeezed tight, shivering and trembling, wishing I was anywhere but here.

  Jethro tapped me on the shoulder a few moments later, his touch harsh and demanding. “Open your eyes.”

  I reluctantly obeyed, focusing on his flawless face and cold, unforgiving gaze.

  He dangled a flogger in front of my vision. It held a multitude of leather strips with knots in regular intervals down the strands. “Have you seen one of these?”

  I nodded.

  I was a designer. I garnered inspiration from everything and anything, including different lifestyle choices, eras, and kinks. However, there was nothing sexually playful about this one. It was mean and meant to hurt.

  I balled my hands, cursing the pins and needles in my fingertips as blood rushed faster. “Yes.”

  “And do you think it was a just punishment for stealing something, all to keep his family alive?”

  I shook my head. “No.”

  Jethro agreed, “No. Especially in the dead of winter where his body was frozen and brittle, and the slightest touch would’ve been agony.” He ran his finger down my shoulder blades. “You’re warm, in a humid room. Your skin is supple and flushed. Pain won’t register as badly as if I’d placed you inside a freezer or dumped you in ice water before we started.”

  He dropped his voice. “Want to know another secret, Ms. Weaver? Want to know something that could potentially get me into a lot of trouble?”

  My eyes flared. The way he asked…he was serious. I twisted, trying to catch his eye, but he remained just out of looking distance. “What?” I breathed.

  Jethro pressed his body against mine again, digging his belt buckle painfully into my lower back, sandwiching my naked skin harder against the post. “I was supposed to do that. Supposed to make you so cold, I could snap your arm with one touch. You were supposed to be numb and chattering with chill so that every lash would make you scream in endless agony.”

  I swallowed hard, fear lacing my blood. “Why—why didn’t you?” Even my heart stopped beating in fear of missing his answer. I needed to find a way to understand this man, before it was too late.

  He dropped his voice to barely a whisper, “Because no one should have to be as cold as I’ve been taught.” He suddenly stepped back, letting the flogger hang down in his grip.

  He snapped, “I suggest you hug the post, Ms. Weaver. This is going to hurt.”

  NILA IMMEDIATELY DID as I said.

  With no hesitation, she pressed her body harder against the post, doing her best to hold on despite the restricting cuffs.

  Every muscle in her back stood out: every ridge and valley from her trim arse to her taut shoulders. Bruises from vertigo stained the flawless white. Scratches from trees and nature marred her with violence. Every rib stood out as she stopped breathing and locked her knees.

  I couldn’t have her passing out from lack of oxygen. She had to stay with me. We were in this together.

  Gathering the knotted torture device, I murmured, “Do you repent? Do you take ownership of your family’s sins and agree to pay the debt?”

  Nila pressed even harder against the post, as if she could morph into the wood and disappear.

  When she didn’t reply, I coaxed, “I asked you a question, Ms. Weaver.” Running the flogger through my hands, I stepped closer. “Do you?”

  She sucked in a breath, her ribcage straining against her blemished skin. “Ye—yes.” Her head bowed, and her lips went white.

  I nodded. It was on record. I’d asked and she’d agreed—that was all I needed.

  Taking my place for deliverance, I murmured, “I want you to count.”

  Her eyes shot wide, her cheek squished against the bark of the post. “Count?”

  I smiled. “I want to hear you acknowledge every lash.”

  With my heart in my chest, I spread my thighs and jerked my arm back. I told her the truth about disobeying the order to lock her in the chiller. If my father found out, I could be in serious shit.

  We both could.

  I hadn’t found the balls to delve into the reasons why I hadn’t obeyed the procedure. All I could focus on was delivering the First Debt. Then I could get out of here. Then I could get some peace.

  “Don’t stop counting,” I grunted. My arm sailed forward, sending the four-stranded flogger whistling through the air.

  For a split second, I suffered an out-of-body experience. I saw myself. I witnessed the anger and power on my face. I watched as if I wasn’t the one wielding pain but an outsider. And I wondered what it would be like to belong to a different family. To have a different upbringing.

  But then the experience stopped, slamming me back into my body.

  The flogger sliced through the thick silence.

  Nila screamed.

  I jolted.

  Raw redness bloomed as the lash licked across flesh.

  Her skin was so delicate; blood welled instantly.

  I stumbled at the sight. My heart shot from my chest and lay beating and mangled on the floor. Images of hunting and killing flurried in my mind. Drawing blood was not new to me. But drawing it from a woman I’d developed feelings for was.

  It felt…

  …

  Fuck, I don’t know.

  Strange. Exotic. Not entirely distasteful but not fully delectable either.

  A realm of uncertainty.

  Nila slouched against the post as pain washed through her system. She panted, moans ragged in her chest.

  I’d done my part, but she’d yet to do hers.

  “Count!” I roared.

  Flinching, she stood taller. Sniffing back unshed tears, she yelled, “One!”

  Her voice hijacked my body; my cock throbbed.

  I’d been prepared to do everything that
I’d been ordered. After all, I wanted to. I’d been taught to crave this control. To hurt others.

  But in that second, I craved something entirely different. I wanted to feel the heat of her whipped back against my front as I slid into her tightness and fucked her. I wanted her to scream for an entirely different reason.

  Goddammit, what the hell is happening to me?

  I struck again, sending the flogger flying. The soft leather bit into her back. “Count!” I snapped. Causing her pain helped ease a little of mine. This woman had the power to ruin me. That would never be permitted. I have to ruin her first.

  She screamed again. “Two!”

  My muscles already ached from being tense and on edge. My balls disappeared inside my body with the urge to come.

  How the fuck will I get through this?

  Two down.

  Nineteen to go.

  The number was written in the logbook of the county enforcer. Twenty-one lashings for Frank Hawk on account of thievery. His son, Bennett Hawk, was the stable boy who wrote up the Debt Inheritance.

  Frank had been bleeding and left to freeze. Twenty-one oozing cuts turning to red frost before being deemed repentant for providing for his family.

  Like for like.

  Debt for debt.

  That was my purpose.

  That was the madness of my family. Not so much for principle or honouring our ancestor’s hardships—but to embrace the power we once lacked. Power we now wielded in perfect precision. The Weavers weren’t our agenda—it was the convenience of having an exclusive family tree destined to let us torment and torture, to keep our fangs dripping and claws sharp.

  I raised my arm, sailing the knotted strands, tearing across Nila’s skin.

  “Ah!” Her body shuddered with agony.

  My cock stabbed painfully against my belt as Nila writhed on the pole. Dropping my hand, I grabbed the rock hard piece of flesh, rearranging its position so it didn’t snap itself in two in my trousers. “I don’t hear counting,” I growled.

  “Three,” she cried.

  Another lash.

  “Four.”

  Another.

  “Five!”

  With each one her back blistered, turning from un-whipped perfection to weeping rawness. The humidity of the conservatory drenched my shirt until liquid salt covered my skin. Every lash, savage hunger built inside, feeding off Nila’s pain and my own for wanting her.

  My mouth watered to kiss her spine, to lick at the mess I’d caused.

  I wanted to nuzzle her tears and whisper the truth of who I was.

  You never can.

  Just the mere thought of being honest petrified me. If I spoke it, how would I keep it hidden?

  I should never have done this in such a hot place. I should never have attempted something so barbaric without shielding my mind properly. Every strike hurt Nila externally, but she couldn’t see what it did to my soul.

  I struck again, breathing hard through my nose.

  “Six,” Nila moaned.

  The heat of the room seeped through my pores, twisting my heart, melting any frost I might’ve conjured. Every cold shard melted, turning into a cascade of warmth.

  I swallowed as I drank in Nila’s exquisite form. The way she trembled but refused to let her knees buckle. The way her cheeks flushed and dark eyes sucked power from the room.

  She was…magnificent.

  I cocked my arm, sending the flogger to claw at her lower back.

  Nila groaned loudly. “Seven.”

  My arm ached as I struck again.

  “Eight.”

  And again.

  “Nine.”

  Nine down.

  Twelve to go.

  Shit, I was ready to collapse. I was ready to crawl to her feet and beg for her to forgive me.

  Forgive me?

  There was nothing to forgive. She deserved this!

  I struck hard, forcing myself to stay ruthless.

  “Ten!” she screeched.

  My ears rang with her pain.

  I gave up trying to control my emotions and surrendered.

  The sooner I delivered her penance, the sooner I could undo the wrong I’d done.

  Gritting my teeth, I picked up my pace. Delivering blow after blow, quicker and quicker.

  “Eleven,” Nila sobbed.

  “Twelve.”

  “Thirteen.” Her voice broke and a glistening tear slicked down her cheek.

  It cleaved my fucking heart.

  “Fourteen!”

  Sweat poured down my face as I hit again and again. My breathing matched hers. I’d never been so turned on in all my life or so fucking disgusted.

  It made me face things I’d hidden deep, deep inside. It drew ghosts and terrors all into confrontation. I needed to run. Before I lost myself.

  But I couldn’t leave. I knew in my heart, I wouldn’t be able to walk away from this without fucking her. There was nothing on this earth that would stop me from taking her the moment I’d finished the last lash. I didn’t care I wasn’t supposed to touch her until the Third Debt.

  I don’t fucking care.

  Everything was on the line. Everything that before had been enough to keep me subservient and in my father’s pocket, now wasn’t.

  I’d been obedient. Loyal. Done everything he ever asked of me.

  But that was before I found something I wanted more than what my future held.

  My cock rippled with pre-cum as I struck.

  “Fifteen!”

  Nila was mine.

  I wanted her.

  I’d take her.

  I grunted as I swung again, throwing my body weight into the strike.

  “Sixteen.” She shifted, pressing her forehead against the post. Her hair stuck to the blood oozing on her shoulders. She gasped, dragging in air as if she drowned.

  “Seventeen!” she screamed as I drew forth more crimson agony. Her abused, glowing skin split, sprinkling rusty droplets down her ribcage.

  My eyes glazed; I stumbled closer.

  I’m sorry.

  You’re not sorry.

  I needed to touch her. Heal her. Fuck her.

  My arm bellowed as I delivered three in quick succession.

  “Eighteen.”

  “Nineteen.”

  “Twenty!” Nila collapsed, her knees buckling. Her weight transferred entirely to the cuffs.

  My arm fell by my side. I could barely stand. My lungs sucked in air as if I were dying; my heartbeat existed everywhere, vibrating in the plants around us, roaring in my ears.

  One more.

  Do it.

  I looked to the camera hidden in the ferns. My father would watch this later and reprimand me for being affected. He would see the glaze in my eyes, the desire on my face. He would make me pay for not freezing her first. He would destroy all the warmth that now existed in my heart and take me back to the person I hated.

  That was my future.

  But this was our present.

  This was ours.

  I struck. Hard. Too hard. Too fucking hard. My mind couldn’t free itself from things Nila would never understand. Her world was black and white. Betrayal versus love. Truth versus deception.

  My world was different. So very, very different.

  “Twenty-one!” Nila let go of her frayed self-control. Sobs broke through her lips, tears cascading down ghost-white cheeks. “Please—no more. Stop.” She tried to stand but couldn’t find the strength. “Please! No—I can’t—”

  Twenty-one.

  The lucky number.

  Her tears dragged dangerous compassion from my arctic soul, hauling me into humanness.

  Bad things happened when I let myself get this way.

  Terrible things that I couldn’t control.

  But Nila was my undoing.

  I think I’d known that the moment I tore her dress off in Milan. I had no strength to pretend—not after this. Not now.

  I needed to take her. To fully claim her, so I could give in
completely to the one thing I’d run from all my life.

  If I took her now, there would be no turning back for me. Damn the fucking consequences.

  Groaning, I threw away the flogger. “It’s over.”

  Nila sobbed harder, gratefulness a sharp tang in the air.

  With shaky fingers, I unbuttoned my jeans, moving forward into destruction and disrepair.

  She was my prize.

  Nothing would stop me from taking it.

  I COULDN’T MOVE.

  I couldn’t stand up, breathe, think, or feel without being bombarded by agony. I’d never hurt so much. Not even after a tortuous fifteen-hour day huddled over a sewing machine, or twelve hours on my feet in stilettos.

  I’d never been subjected to pain such as this.

  To a beating such as this.

  And this was the easiest of the debts?

  Terror clogged my throat at the thought of what the others entailed.

  Movement caught my attention. I forced my tear-stained vision to focus on Jethro as he prowled to the ferns and reached into the foliage. What was he doing?

  A second later he moved toward me¸ every step full of temper and thick, thick lust.

  Shit.

  I squirmed, tugging on the cuffs. Before the whipping, I would’ve willingly let him take me. I wanted him to.

  But not like this.

  Not like this!

  Not when my brain wept with agony and my emotions were completely screwed up.

  “No,” I groaned.

  Jethro gritted his jaw, his hand disappearing into his jeans.

  A keening wail clawed up my throat. I couldn’t let him fuck me. I hurt. So damn much. I wasn’t turned on or interested in the slightest. I couldn’t stomach being molested further.

  You don’t have a choice.

  My heart cracked at the thought. No, I didn’t have a choice. He would take me. There was nothing I could do about it.

  Apart from…

  Appeal to the warmth you know is inside him. Make him listen. Make him see.

  Jethro’s hands landed on my hips, yanking me away from the post. My body was jelly, my skin slick with sweat and blood.

  Shaking my head, I moaned, “Please don’t touch me.”

  Jethro’s only response was rubbing his thumbs in slippery circles on my damp hips.