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 sixteenth 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."