Текст книги "Debt Inheritance"
Автор книги: Pepper Winters
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Текущая страница: 7 (всего у книги 13 страниц)
“Have you never dealt with an upset stomach or a tension headache?” Waving my hand in his face, I snapped, “It’s the same thing. My body doesn’t handle upsetting circumstances well. Get over it or let me the hell go!”
It felt wonderful to let go of the anger bubbling inside. It purged me a little, giving me room to breathe.
Jethro remained steadfast, his eyes wide, mouth thin and unamused.
“Well, she has fight. All the fun ones did.”
The man who’d spoken stood on the second-to-last step of a humongous portico. The house loomed overhead, blotting out the moon and stars as if it were a living entity. Burnished copper gilded the many roofs and turrets, criss-crossing flowerbeds lived beneath soaring lead-light windows, and lattice planted grass grew on the side of the turrets. It wasn’t just a building—it was alive. Maintained, proud, a piece of impressive architecture that had weathered centuries, but been so well cared for.
I craned my neck left and right. The building continued on and on, at least ten stories high, with intricate alcoves, sweeping doorways, and a hawk embellishing every keystone.
It’s a work of art. I was a creator. My passion didn’t just lie in textiles, but in everything where a level of skill blared from every inch.
And Hawksridge Hall was majestic.
I wanted to hate it. I despised the family who owned it. But I’d always been a lover of history. I’d always pictured myself as a lady of a manor, with horses and gardens and refined dinner parties. I loved exploring stately homes, not for the furniture or statues, but for the drapery, hand-stitched wallpaper, and massive hanging tapestries.
The talent from an age where women sewed by candlelight never failed to impress and depress me. Their talent far outweighed my own.
Jethro took a step toward the older gentleman. “You said it would be easy. I can assure you, it wasn’t.” Throwing a cold look over his shoulder, Jethro motioned me forward. “Come here and pay your respects.”
I didn’t move.
The older man chuckled. He wore all black, and just like the man who brought my belongings in the parking garage in Milan, he wore a black leather jacket with a silhouette of a diamond on the pocket.
His hair was fully white, yet his face wasn’t too weathered. He had a goatee, which was more dirty grey than snow, and eyes were as light and unnerving as Jethro’s.
Instantly my back stiffened; my heart bucked in refusal. This man didn’t deserve respect. I wanted nothing to do with him.
Just as I knew the younger man in the car was Jethro’s brother, I knew without a doubt this was his father. This man was responsible for upholding the evil pastime of torturing innocence for something that should stay in the past. He was ultimately responsible for my demise.
Jethro stalked back, stole my arm, and marched me forward. Under his breath, he said, “Don’t annoy me. I’m warning you.”
Jerking me to a halt in front of his father, he spoke louder. “Ms. Weaver, let me introduce you to Bryan Hawk. Head of our family, President to his fellow riders, and sixth man in a long line of succession to wear the family name.”
He glared at me, making sure I listened. “He’s also known as Cut amongst his brotherhood. But to you, he will always be addressed as Mr. Hawk.”
Mr. Hawk grinned, holding out his hand. “Welcome to my humble abode.”
I shied away, not wanting to touch him, be close to him, or even have to tolerate talking to him.
Jethro growled under his breath, grabbing my elbow and holding me firm. “You’re one infraction away from sleeping with the hounds, Ms. Weaver. Try me. Disobey once more.”
His father laughed. “Ah, I remember those days. The fun, the discipline.” Climbing down the final step, he closed the space between us. His aftershave reeked of sadism and old money—if that had a smell. A horrid mix of spice and musk that gave me an instant headache, whilst his eyes stole everything about me from my reflection to my dismal future.
He cupped my cheek.
I flinched, expecting the brutality and roughness I’d come to expect from a Hawk, but he ran his thumb gently over my cheekbone. “Hello, Nila. It’s a pleasure to once again entertain a Weaver in our modest home.”
Hearing my name repulsed me. Jethro hadn’t used it yet—sticking to the impersonal address of my last-name. I hated that Mr. Hawk thought he had the authority to speak it.
Wanting to spit in his face, I focused on the house behind him—swallowing the urge. My gaze soared to the stained glass windows, the imposing spires, and impressive stonework. There was nothing modest about this dwelling, and he knew it.
I kept my lips clamped. I had a whole novel of horrible things I wanted to say, but Jethro’s seething bulk beside me kept my tongue in check.
Jethro let me go, pushing me into his father. “She’s been nothing but trouble. I can’t deny I’m looking forward to tomorrow.”
My heart leapt into my throat at the dark promise in his voice. What’s going to happen tomorrow?
Mr. Hawk dropped his palm from my cheek, wrapping his arm around my waist. With his free hand, he brushed wayward strands from my eye. “You look just like your mother. It’s a pity I’m not the one extracting in this particular instance, but rest assured, I will enjoy you once or twice.”
My stomach latched onto my heart, making me sick. Don’t ask. The question blared in my head. What did you do to my mother?
I’d been so young and full of righteous anger at her leaving my father. I thought she was the villain—the heartbreaker.
But she was the one who paid an unpayable price. And never returned.
Mr. Hawk’s eyes glinted. “I see Jethro hasn’t told you anything yet.” Trailing his hand from my hair to my lips, he stroked me gently. “That’s going to be a fun conversation, but for now I’ll let you in on a little family secret.” Crushing me against him, he whispered, “I’m the one who stole her. I’m the one who took debt after debt from her unwilling skin. And do you know what she begged for in her final minutes of life?”
My head swam. My world roared. Life as I knew it ended.
I hated him.
I loathed him.
I’ll kill you.
I’d never felt such heat, such insanely burning desire to cause harm. My teeth ached from clenching; my nails drew blood from my palms.
“She begged for your life. To end it with her and to let you live in peace.” His hand left my waist, grabbing my arse with a vicious grip. “Know what I told her?” His breath smelled of liquor and cigars, making me swallow his words. “I told her you were born a Weaver, you’ll die a Weaver. And that’s the simplistic way of our world.”
Shoving me away, I ping-ponged from father to son, coming to an abrupt halt in Jethro’s arms. The relief at being away from the man who’d murdered my mother made my limbs weak and jittery, but I couldn’t stop the hatred from gnawing a gaping hole in my soul. I needed it out. I needed it spoken so he would know the debt might not have ended with my mother but it would end with me.
It will.
“I pity you. I knew nothing about you, your sons, your warped perception of life until tonight. I may not know why you’re doing this but I do know one thing. I know that it’s the last time you’ll ever do it.”
“Shut up!” Jethro shook me. But I wasn’t scared of him. I wasn’t scared of any of them anymore. They were bullies. Sadistic bastards who’d met their match.
Struggling in his arms, I freed my hand, pointing a livid finger at Mr. Hawk. I lost my rage, tilting head first into lunacy. My temper gave me power over everything. My cursed balance. My sheltered beginnings. In that one moment of brazenness, I found a nucleus of strength I didn’t know I had.
My voice pitched as I yelled, “I’ll kill you! I’ll watch you die just like you watched my mother—I’ll kill you! You don’t deserve to live. I’ll kill you and—” I launched myself at him, only to stumble and go slamming back against a powerful form.
Jethro grabbed my shaking arm, pinning it to my side. His strong hold crashed me against his body, moulding my wiggling behind against his rigid front.
His body was hard and firm—exactly like the stone I thought he was. The bulge in his trousers pressed against my lower spine.
“You’ve pushed me too far. You just had to fucking push. No one threatens my family, least of all a girl who can barely stand without support. And a Weaver.” He spat on my feet. “Fucking filth.”
“Remove her from my sight.” Mr. Hawk sniffed. “Teach her her place, Jethro. I won’t put up with such stupid behaviour.” His eyes landed on me. “As for you. I’d hoped you’d show more promise. Think what you want of us, Ms. Weaver, but this isn’t a simple matter that will end quickly. You’re ours for however long we wish to keep you and you’ll learn proper manners if we have to beat it into you.”
Nodding at Jethro, he climbed the steps to the two story sized front door and disappeared.
The moment he vanished, my spine rolled and I wanted nothing more than to fall to my knees and cry.
What was I thinking?
My rage and hatred snuffed out like a candle in a storm. I’d never been so out of control. My emotions had held me hostage and I’d snapped—for the first time since my mother left—I’d succumbed to the intense freedom of bitterness.
Jethro dragged me backward, his dress shoes crunching against gravel. He didn’t wait for me to back-peddle, just clutched me hard, dragging me like an already dead corpse. “You’ve surprised me twice tonight, and I haven’t liked either of them. You’ve pissed me off. So much so that—”
Slamming to a halt, he shoved my shoulder blades. “Get on your knees.”
I wheeled forward, crashing from standing to landing on all fours.
No!
I winced as the driveway bit into my palms; my knees throbbed as sharp pebbles cut into my skin. I looked up, my face swollen and achy from unpermitted tears welling as deep as a bottomless lake.
This was the truth. This humiliation and admittance of power, not the farce he’d painted.
Jethro towered above, his legs planted wide, face etched in livid anger. “I’m a firm advocator of rewarding good behaviour but after tonight you’ve proven there is nothing to reward. You’re wild, unwilling, and a spoiled brat who will learn her place.”
Leaning down, he grabbed my long hair, jerking it hard. “Did you honestly think, after an outburst like that, that you’d deserve the comfort of a bed? Why do it, Ms. Weaver, when you knew what was on the line?”
I couldn’t speak. My throat was pulled back, the pressure stopping all sounds and swallows.
“I have a good mind to fuck you right here. To smash whatever sense of entitlement or hope you’re holding onto.” He shook me.
My eyes watered at the pain.
“You’re not hearing me. This is your life now. I am your only friend. Stop. Pissing. Me. Off.”
You’re not my friend. I have one, and his name isn’t Jethro.
Kite.
I didn’t think I’d want to message him so soon, but I needed someone from the outside world. I needed reminding that the universe hadn’t entered an alternate dimension and there was still hope.
When I remained silent, Jethro snarled, “You’re sleeping with the dogs. They have better obedience than you, perhaps you can learn from them on what we expect.”
I sniffed, fighting so hard against the tears.
I didn’t even care that I wouldn’t sleep in a bed. I was past worrying about sanitary conditions or nutritious food. All I wanted was freedom. All I needed was some time alone to gather my scattered self-worth and remember who I was.
“Move,” Jethro breathed, his beloved silence smoothing his outburst from before. “Don’t make me show you how a good dog moves.”
He wants you to crawl.
It had begun.
This was the beginning. And I’d brought it upon myself.
He wants to destroy you.
Using my hair as the leash, Jethro paced beside me as I went from stationary to crawling. I crawled like an animal. I crawled like a pet. I crawled through manicured gardens, past ponds, and statues, all the way from manor to kennel.
I STRETCHED, LOOKING up at my ceiling. The plasterwork around the huge chandelier never failed to let me know who I was.
A Hawk.
The intricate rosettes and architraving was a testament to my namesake. Birds of prey swooped, hunted, and devoured small animals from above.
My hard cock lay heavily against my stomach. My hands clenched beneath my head. I was so fucking close to breaking the rules and taking Nila last night. She’d pushed me too far. I’d wanted to see how smart her mouth could be with my dick jammed down her throat.
I should’ve taken her.
Removing my hand from beneath my pillow, I grasped my morning wood and stroked. My eyes snapped closed as I imagined a different outcome to last night.
Nila’s pink plump lips opening. Me sliding inside her mouth. My balls tightening as her timid tongue welcomed my cock. She’d lick me just like she’d done my thumb. Eager, inexperienced—a novice with so much to give.
I’d rock forward, holding her head, giving her no choice but to take more of my length.
I’d thrust harder, driving her from accepting to choking.
Fuck.
My hand worked tight and fast. The large bed creaked as I arched my back, giving into the fantasy of blowing down Nila Weaver’s throat.
Fuck, yes. Take it. Yes.
My quads tightened, and I groaned as the first spasm of release shot from my balls, creating a sticky mess on my stomach.
Choke on it. Love it.
Fantasy Nila kept sucking me, drawing another wave of pleasure. I liked her a lot more with my cock in her mouth. She was silent. Incapacitated.
I shivered as the last spurt of my orgasm joined the mess. I opened my eyes.
“Goddammit.” I hadn’t meant to do that. I should’ve summoned a club whore to come and suck me off. Masturbating wasn’t necessary when there were countless willing women ready to service me at the snap of my fingers.
Fuck it. It was a long night. I deserved a little…unwinding.
It’s going to be an even longer day.
I might’ve blown my load with an imaginary vision of Nila on her knees, but it would soon become real. Today, Nila would be initiated. She’d be welcomed. And not just by me.
I wonder how frustrating she’ll be when three men use her at the same time.
Swinging my legs out of bed, I prowled across the thick red carpet toward my private bathroom.
I smiled, perversely happy with the day’s upcoming activities. The next few weeks weren’t about debt repaying or vengeance, they were about hospitality and welcoming a new Weaver into the Hawk household. She had much to learn, her place to recognise, and all thoughts of who she was torn from her soul and burned.
I’d use her. My father would use her. My two younger brothers would use her. Shit, it was open season for the first few weeks until she snapped and went from fighting to docile. Then the repayments would begin.
After spending some time alone with her, I knew the handful she was. Despite her disobedience, I rather liked her fire. Pity that fire would snuff out almost instantly. She’d probably crack on the first activity.
I paused, searching inside to see if I cared. To see if I had enough ice inside to do everything expected of me. She was pretty, I had to admit. She had a certain intrigue. But she was just a woman.
A woman who confuses you.
Scowling, I shoved the thought away. She confused me which wasn’t a good thing. It was almost as bad as surprising me.
One moment she seemed so sure and strong. The next she was brittle and breakable. And her bloody vertigo was getting on my goddamn nerves.
No. I was more than happy to let my fellow brothers share the work in ruining her. It would be over faster, and I could go back to my life before I knew of the stupid scroll stained with the blood of the first Weaver woman.
The sun spilled like a golden carpet, leading the way from bed to shower. My room was vacant of personal touches but reeked in history of past owners. Rococo style dressers, Victorian designed chairs. The wallpaper was embossed maroon leather with gold accents.
The entire space was brooding and temperamental. I would’ve preferred clean lines. White—which was the silence of the colour palette—with stone furniture and metal chairs. I liked to be surrounded by an unfeeling atmosphere but I’d never be permitted to change this area.
It was sacred.
All because it’d been the bedroom of all Hawk men who’d inherited a Weaver woman. Their last breath was taken in this room. It held the ghosts of Nila’s ancestors and would one day absorb hers, too.
The birthday present of new spurs and a heinously wicked whip glinted on the eighteenth century sideboard. At the time, I’d thought it was a piss poor present for turning twenty-nine, but in retrospect I’d have a lot of fun using them on Nila rather than my horse.
The best present was due next year. The true inheritance I’d been waiting for. One much better than a woman or her tears or even the permission to draw her blood. When I turned thirty, I would own it all.
Everything. All mine.
The fantastic ruling of Primogeniture meant as firstborn son, I inherited the lot. My brothers wouldn’t get penny. My sister not a single diamond. They would survive by my charity. Just like my father.
The brotherhood. The mines. The yachts. The cars. Hawksridge. And every property overseas.
Mine.
Bryan Hawk, Cut to those in the Black Diamond brotherhood, would be second to me. The way of our ancestors ensured young authority remained in control of an estate that’d spilled enough blood to fill a moat around our gates.
My father would retire, and I would be king.
I’d upgrade from living in the bachelor wing with its pool room, theatre, office, weaponry, solarium, six bedrooms, and six bathrooms to having the pick of a fifty room, two ballroom, and a dungeon-equipped house to play in.
And by play, I meant make women scream.
That was the only time they were allowed to break my rule of quietness. The only time I enjoyed their begging.
Collecting new clothing from my walk-in wardrobe, I glimpsed myself in the mirror. My lips curled in disgust at the sticky mess on my stomach. I had a good mind to get Nila and make her lick me clean.
That was her fault.
My mind drifted back to her—against my will. She’d not only taken up valuable space in my head, but my day’s structure as well. There would be no hunting today or inspecting the latest diamond shipment.
There’d be no business or travel.
All my energy and focus belonged to the woman who was a waste of my time.
Another daydream of forcing her to her knees stopped me on the outskirts of the bathroom. Would she cry or scream as I fucked her from behind? Perhaps she’d surprise me again and moan in ecstasy. I planned on taking her that way—the animalistic way. After all, she did spend the night with the dogs. It would only be fitting.
Dumping my clothes on the vanity, I strode into the four-headed quartz shower. I had no need to strip. I slept naked.
Always did.
It was part of the rules.
Living at Hawksridge, the grandest and most exclusive motorcycle club compound in all of England, came with strict unbreakable rules. Our brotherhood was different. We were smart, cunning, focused.
Any man found sleeping with clothes on was in for a night of pain. We might have left the dark ages behind but my family upheld strictness.
We made our fortune in the most transferable precious item there was. And we’d learned a lot from past mistakes on how to treat those who tried to steal them.
No clothes at night and random cavity searches by day.
All to protect our legacy. The way we made our money. The way we rose from penniless thieves at the beck and call of the Weavers to gathering a wealth that morphed to obscene a few centuries ago.
Stepping into the shower, I turned on the hot spray. Smiling at the mirrored wall, I cupped my cock, washing the residue of my indiscretion.
The next time I come, I’ll be inside the woman I inherited.
With my cock in my hand, I nodded at my reflection.
I’m a Hawk but blood doesn’t flow in my veins. I’m born of a substance unbeatable by any other—diamonds. I’m a smuggler. I’m a dealer. And I’m about to become…a killer.
NEEDLE&THREAD: I’m warm and in bed. Surprisingly I slept better than I thought I would. Did you have a good night? Did you lie in your bed and picture me pleasuring you? What did I do to you? Tell me, Kite. I want you to transport me from reality and give me a fantasy stronger than my present humdrum life.
Kite007: Forward this morning, aren’t we? You’re that desperate to talk about my cock? Not that I’d ever say no—but I’m rather impressed by your forwardness. Tell me more…beg.
Needle&Thread: Beg? How does one beg for something they need rather than want? Would you prefer me on my knees? Or perhaps on my back ready for whatever you wanted to give me?
Kite007: Fuck. What’s got into you? Beg. Imagine I’m standing over you with my hard cock in my hand. I’m throttling it—my fist working so fucking hard at the thought of you spread-eagled and fingering yourself. Give me a visual. Now. Then I might reward you.
Needle&Thread: I’m exactly as you said. Begging, whimpering, touching myself until my whimpers turn to pants and my begs turn to moans. I’m wet for you. I’m hot for you. Please, Kite. Give me my fantasy. Give me something warm to hold onto.
Kite007: What the fuck is this about? How can I come when you sound fucking weird?
Needle&Thread: Weird? I’m not. I’m giving you what you want in return for what I need.
Kite007: Is that supposed to make sense, ‘cause I don’t understand bullshit code. Fuck, you’re seriously making me do it.
Needle&Thread: Do what?
Kite007: Ask you! Okay, fine. What’s got your panties so bunched that you’re coming onto me so strong. What happened to my timid naughty nun? Why the fuck do you sound so different?
I stared at my phone, heart rate skyrocketing. I’d tried to play it coy and courageous. I thought I’d pulled off the pantomime that I was still myself, still living my content but uninspiring life.
Obviously not.
I re-read my past replies, unable to see the difference. Had I changed that much already?
There was nothing soft about Kite. There was no reason for me to seek him out when I had enough bastard in my life thanks to Jethro. It made no sense to let him use me—but it did in a strange way. It made sense because I willingly gave him control over me—something I needed in my rapidly spinning out of control life. While Jethro was determined to undermine, throw away, and rule every inch of whatever little power I had left, Kite gave it back in some strange, wonderful way.
He’s the monster I know. He’s not sweetness and light—but he’s mine because I choose him to be. The defiance was yet another stupid score against the beast called Jethro Hawk.
Straightening my back, I tried to figure out a way to possibly get Kite to soften—just a little—then everything would be a lot easier to bear.
Kite007: Tell me, then make me come. You’ve got two jobs to do. Do them.
Taking a deep breath, I opened a fresh message.
Needle&Thread: Tell me if this is out of bounds, but in answer to your question—why do I sound different—I suppose it’s because I feel different. Everything is different. I thought I’d always fight against different. I like normal. I like routine. I thought different would ruin me. But…then…I changed.
Kite007: Changed? You really going to make me drag this out? My cock is hard and balls want to come. Spill it, so we can get to the second part of your to-do list.
Needle&Thread: I’m the one who’s different now. It’s as if everything I’ve been dealing with suddenly doesn’t matter. It’s just gone….
Kite007: Gone?
Needle&Thread: Yes. It’s liberating, scary as hell, and confusing. But something’s changing inside—it feels as if I’m…growing up.
I sighed. He’d send something horrible back—my response had been too personal. I knew that. But I’d sent it anyway.
Kite007: Out of bounds. Get back to the subject. Let’s try this, here’s something you obviously want: I’m happy you’re growing up—makes me feel a lot fucking easier knowing I’m not jerking off to a kinky fourteen year old. And now for want I want: Too bad for you, I’m not gone or planning to before you finish doing what you started. I’m done with the cryptic crap. Pay attention, because I’m sliding my cock into your mouth. You try to talk but you choke on my length, your voice is humming against my balls. Stop trying to communicate and settle in to your task. Suck me.
I sighed. Two emotions swirled inside—exasperation and gratefulness. He’d replied to my overshare. He hadn’t shot me down or been the pillock he usually was. Progress.
The tentative softness inside was enough to get me through the next few hours.
Shouldn’t you want more?
My heart hardened.
Kite had replied to my veiled hints for encouragement but I’d hoped…
It doesn’t matter what I hoped.
It seemed everything I wanted in this world wasn’t available—including more than one kind word from Kite. We’d been so close to a normal conversation. Learning, sharing, building a connection despite the complications of sexting.
He’d let me in for a microsecond then shut me out once again, using sex as a tool to keep me in my place and remind me I didn’t factor in his life—either as a friend or even associate. I was the unseen whore. The unpaid prostitute who lived in his phone.
I couldn’t let him hurt me. I couldn’t let him weaken me.
He’d done what I needed—reminding me I was strong enough. There was nothing else to do but finish the conversation, so I could leave the soul-sucking fantasy and return to the tragedy of my new world.
Kite007: You’re not sucking. Fine, I’ll give you some encouragement. If you blow me, I’ll return the favour. I’ll flip you onto your back, spread your legs, and bury my face between your legs. I’d bite you, fucking you with my tongue until you forgot everything and came.
My stomach attempted a small swoop. It wasn’t romantic, but it did give me a tiny bit more warmth I needed.
Before I could reply, another message vibrated.
Kite007: Tell me where you are right now. Are you naked? Finger yourself for me. Take a photo if you’re brave.
I laughed. The sound shredded the space that Jethro had so kindly given me for the night. Laughing was the only thing I could do. Take a photo? Of what? The bruises on my palms from crawling to the kennels last night? How about the cuts on my knees?
Maybe he wants a picture of my elegant bedroom and wonderful bedfellows.
Looking up for the first time since I woke, I let the uselessness of my situation get the better of me. The bravery I’d been clutching to like a raft in a rolling ocean, splintered and drowned. Painful despair saturated my heart, weighing me down like the anchors I so often clung to.
By all standards, the kennel was sheer luxury. The roof was watertight. The floor clean and sanitary. It was even draft free.
But it wasn’t just mine. I had to share.
Squirrel, my favourite of the eleven canines I’d spent the night with, nudged my arm. I’d named him after the tree-climbing rodent thanks to his slightly bushy tail. With a doggy smile, he wheedled his way under my arm, leaning heavily against my torso.
I’d never had pets growing up. As a family, we were too busy working or travelling to exotic places to source more material and merchandise. Until last night, I’d had an adolescent fear of dogs.
That had evolved to terror when Jethro threw me inside.
I shuddered, hugging Squirrel closer to me, stealing his gentle warmth. Last night Jethro had tried to destroy me. Not through fists or rape or even harsh words. No, he tried to destroy me by removing any entitlement I had as a human. Marking me as no better than the dogs he kept.
He would’ve succeeded if my terror hadn’t mellowed into bewilderment then gratefulness. He’d done me a favour—I preferred the company of his hounds. They not only tolerated my intrusion but welcomed me into the pack.
Squirrel licked my pebble-indented palm, letting me know he understood my aches. I still suffered from crawling from the manor, past immaculate flower beds, over precision mowed grass, and cutting through shadows cast by imposing hedges.
Everything throbbed when I finally crawled the last metre and sat waiting beside a large roller door. My dress was torn, my knees bleeding—not that he’d cared.
The estate was bigger than I could contemplate, but even in the darkness, I’d made out the buildings around us. The stables were across the cobblestone yard. A granary let its soft grainy fragrance permeate the air. The gentle huffing of horses broke the silence along with wuffles and snuffles from dogs.
Jethro left me sitting on my knees while he disappeared into what I assumed was a tack room. He returned with a large scratchy blanket and a bucket, before unlocking the roller door and beckoning me inside.
Throwing the items into the dark interior, he bowed. “Your boudoir, my lady.” Leaning down, he swatted my behind. “Go to bed like a good little pet. You have a big day ahead of you.”
When I didn’t move, his foot landed on my arse, shoving me forward, giving me no choice but to crawl quickly into darkness.
The moment I’d traded starlight for no light, I panicked.
Jethro threw the bolt home, locking me inside a room that thrived with moving bodies, claws on cobblestones, and soft growls of ownership.
The first brush of a wet nose on my cheek ripped a small scream from my lips. I curled tight into a ball, hugging my knees, squeezing my eyes against being eaten alive.
I waited for sharp teeth. I waited to be bitten.
But they hadn’t eaten me.
Far from it. I’d been licked and nuzzled and welcomed into a pack of unknown numbers.
I was a stranger in their domain, but when I finally overrode my fear and looked into their eyes, they were bright with curiosity rather than territorial anger.
The rest of the night was spent making a semi-comfortable bed out of a loosely packed hay bale, and wrapping myself tight in the scratchy blanket. I’d aimed to sleep alone with my new friends scattered in their usual spaces, but they had other ideas.
Once I was settled, they’d crowded around me, squeezing close, curling around each other until I was the epicentre in a nest of canines.
