Captured Boxed Set: 9 Alpha Bad-Boys Who Will Capture Your Heart (88 page)

She squeezed her eyes in horror.

Didn’t fucking think so.

I never wanted to be that weak.
That driven by compassion. I obeyed my family. I accepted my position. But I
would
never
let love dictate my actions.

That wasn’t what a Hawk did.

We were untouchable.

Taking the liberty of her lack of
vision, I placed the first item on her head. A sexy, frilly maid’s cap. It
perched on her head, gracing her damp black hair like a sad crown.

Her head dipped, shielding her
eyes. Her body convulsed, trying hard to maintain the blankness she thought
would be her salvation.

Tugging her hands, I muttered, "Let
go of the towel."

She cowered away.

Growling under my breath, I wrapped
an arm around her waist, holding her firm. "Don’t make me ask again.
You’re not new to this game. Let go of the towel."

Her eyes flew wide, fighting my
hold. "No!"

Goddammit, she tested me. A headache
brewed behind my eyes. I sighed. "Make me ask you one more time. Go on…"

She froze, breathing hard. A battle
broke out between us. I should never have let her get away with what she pulled
at the stables. She thought I’d softened. She thought I’d be lenient. If
anything, she’d proven my errors and I’d go above and beyond to ensure I didn’t
falter again.

Ever.

She had to learn that the day granted
hope and happiness, but I stole it. She had to face that the night hid evil and
darkness, but my soul was blacker.

There would be no winning. None.

We didn’t speak, but our eyes
shouted, wrapping us tight with unsaid tension.

Finally, she lowered her chin in
defeat. Her death grip on the fluffy material loosened, allowing it to flutter
to the floor.

Ordinarily, I would’ve rewarded
her. A kind word. A gentle gesture. But that was before I learned I couldn’t
give her any softness. She needed a firm, masterful hand. Otherwise, she’d make
my life a living hell until I stole hers.

My eyes latched onto her naked body.

I paused.

Fuck.

Nila Weaver was like the needle she
used to make her livelihood. Long, sculptured. Muscle tone so defined, her hips
defied her supple skin, almost piercing her. Her breasts were small but high
with perfect dark nipples.

My gaze dropped between her legs.
The part of her I’d intimately explored already. I expected an inexperienced
girl to not maintain her pussy, but there was only a strip of black hair,
hiding and teasing at the same time.

My heartbeat thickened.

And then I noticed the bruises.

Everywhere. On her ribcage, hips,
thighs, and arms.

Prodding an unforgiving finger into
a particularly large purple one, I muttered, "Who did this?"

She crossed her knees, clamping a
hand over her breasts.

I swallowed hard, hating that my
cock twitched.

Her mouth parted, then
understanding flared. "Not who. What." Looking down at herself, she
whispered, "The perils of vertigo."

I had no reply to that. She already
had a condition that hurt her. I should be easy to bear.

"Put your arm down." I
slapped it away from her breasts. She stiffened, but left it by her side,
standing taller than before.

Holding out the tiny excuse of an
apron, I placed it over her head. It was black with white lacy trim, low enough
to show the tops of her breasts and nipples, short enough to show the trimmed
delight between her legs.

Spinning her around, I tied the
strings at her neck and lower spine. When she faced me again, she choked, "Why?"

"Why?" I raised an
eyebrow.

She nodded. "Is this all a
game to you?"

I smiled. "No game. We’re
deadly serious. As you should know by now." Leaving her, I returned to the
table and collected the final item. The Weaver heirloom.

Prowling back to her, I held up the
collar.

Her eyes popped wide. She gawked at
the solid encrusted diamond collar made from our very own imports. Two hundred
carats, valued at over three million pounds—it’d been in my family since the
first debt had been claimed.

"Do you know what this is?"
I whispered, dangling it in front of her face.

She clamped her lips, eyes deathly
cold.

I didn’t need a reply. She’d know
soon enough.

Unlocking the collar, I held the
two ends and bent over her. Wrapping it around her throat, I moved from front
to back, positioning myself to fasten it. I kept my voice low and soothing,
embracing my cold ruthlessness again. "It’s affectionately known as the
Weaver Wailer." Using the special clasp—an irreversible clasp—I murmured, "It’s
your gift from us. Jewels from the best of our mines. You should be proud to
wear such wealth."

Nila shivered as the lock snapped
into place.

My shoulders relaxed. It was on. It
was done.

Her option to leave had just
disappeared.

"You’re ours now. Want to know
why?"

She whimpered, shaking her head.

Gathering her thick black hair, I
ignored her plea for ignorance. I’d told her ignorance was bliss—which was
true. But I meant to torment her. I wanted her to fully embrace her future.

Breathing gently on her neck, I
whispered, "Because once the Weaver Wailer is in place…there’s only one
way to get it back off."

 "ENOUGH PLAYING, JETHRO,
bring her here."

The command burned my ears, turning
my false belief I could survive into dirty soot. The fire I’d nursed inside was
gone. All the stupid pretending that I could block the worst from damaging my
soul disappeared. My little claws had fully retracted into nothing once again.

I was cold. Cold as
him.

Shut down. Same as him.

Silent. Same as him.

Only one way to get it off.

I swallowed. My head pounded. My
hands flew up to tug at the jewelled collar. It was heavy and lifeless and ice.
Pure ice. The perfect clarity and flawless sparkle of the diamonds leached into
my skin, claiming me, marking me.

Only one way to get it off.

I thought I’d come to terms with my
mortality. I thought I’d face the end with my head held high and dry eyes—but
that was before they told me the method of my execution. When I thought of
death, I pictured…nothing…I had no image of how the end would come.

Now I did.

Only one way to get it off.

I was to be beheaded.

There’d be no sawing off the collar
or picking the lock. The way the clasp snapped so resolutely hinted at a one
way mechanism. The heavy noose was now mine…an accessory slowly strangling me
by diamonds.

It wasn’t breakable. But I was. So
fragile really, when a single sharp blade could cast me from life into the
nether. Diamonds were nature’s hardest fortress—the quintessential marriage of
unbreakable ice and power.

A new unwanted respect curdled in
my stomach. Jethro said his mines.
Their
mines. Diamonds were pure, but
the method of collection had a chequered history of death and violence.

They didn’t just play the part of
untouchables. They
were
untouchable.

No!

My tugging fingers turned frantic.
I arched my neck, searching with an edge of insanity for a weakness in the soldered
white gold and gemstones. It had to come off.

It has to.

I didn’t have the strength to die.
I didn’t have the martyrdom to let them do this. Not for family. Not for
fortune.
I’m weak. I don’t want to die!

Jethro grabbed my wrists,
effortlessly pulling my arms away from my throat. My eyes opened and all I saw
was malevolent stone. There was no compassion in his light-brown eyes. No
sympathy or even guilt. How did he have the power to be so close to me—to grow
hard wanting me—and know all along my fate?

Only a special person could do
that. A person who wasn’t born of this world, but brimstone and fire. From
hell.

I struggled in his hold, breathing
hard. The collar settled heavily, still spreading its heinous ice. "I was
wrong about you," I hissed.

Jethro placed my hands by my sides,
then let me go. He shrugged, running a palm through his thick salt-and-pepper
hair. "I’ve been nothing but forthright and honest from the beginning.
You’re the one who spun a lie from the truth.
You’re
the one who ignored
everything I was telling you."

Turning to face the table, he
wrapped a cold arm around my waist. "And now it’s time to face the reality
of everything you tried to ignore."

Mr. Hawk, with his ridiculous tweed
and leather outfit, stubbed out a smouldering cigar. "Did you tell her?"

Jethro stiffened. "I forgot."

His father reclined into the
high-backed chair and folded his hands on his stomach. "You were meant to
tell her when you put it on. It’s called the Weaver Wailer and it belonged to…"

A loud screeching sound exploded in
my ears. My stomach rolled. Vertigo spread its nullifying tentacles through my
brain.

It’s the necklace. The one she
wore when she came back the final time
.

Jethro looked down, trying to
capture my eyes, but I wouldn’t do it. I
couldn’t
do it. I kept my
vision blank, looking resolutely over his shoulder. "I think you’ve
already guessed who it belonged to." Lowering his voice, he whispered, "The
last person to wear this collar was your mother. She wore it for two years and
twenty-three days before it was…forcibly removed. It carries not only the
diamonds of my bloodline, but also blood from yours. We, of course, clean it
thoroughly after every owner, but if you look closely, I’m sure you’ll see the
tarnish of their lives given in return for their crimes."

"Nila, when you’re a big
girl, you can wear my clothes, shoes, and jewellery, but you have to grow a
little taller before that day." My mother laughed, looking down at me on
the floor of her walk-in wardrobe. I’d not only raided her jewellery box and
draped myself in gemstones, but wore a feather boa with a baggy one piece
swimming suit and giant high heels. I thought I looked incredible. For a seven-year-old.

Holding up the pearls around my
neck, I said, "Promise? I can have these when I’m your size?"

She ducked, pulling me into a
hug. "You can have everything of mine. Why?"

I smiled. I knew the answer to
this. "Because you love me."

She nodded. "Because I love
you."

The memory came and went, stealing
the firm ground beneath my feet and sending me headfirst into nausea. Spirals,
loop de loops, and spin-cycles all churned my brain until I didn’t know up from
down.

It wasn’t vertigo this time, but
grief.

Crushing, crashing grief. A grief I
hadn’t suffered, because all my happy memories of her had been blocked by the
wall of hatred. She was supposed to be the bad guy for leaving my father. I’d
been safe from hurting. Safe from reliving everything with the knowledge of how
precious she was. How tragic her life became and for
two years
after she’d
left. Two years we didn’t try and save her.

The Hawks had stripped her from me
and torn away any armour I had against missing her. She wasn’t the bad guy.
They
were. They would all die for this. They would rot for eternity. I would find a
way.

Please, let me find a way.

I wore a necklace every firstborn
woman in my family wore before they were murdered—I was owed serious revenge.
Disgusting, painful revenge.

A sob escaped my mouth. I couldn’t
fight the spinning anymore and doubled over. With a sickening splash, I threw
up all over Jethro’s shiny black shoes.

"Fuck." He jumped back,
not that there was much mess. It’d been almost twenty-four hours since I’d
eaten—I had nothing to waste or purge. But the dry heaves wouldn’t stop racking
my frame.

"For fuck’s sake, Jet. Get her
under control. We don’t have all day." Mr. Hawk’s voice shouted across the
room.

Cold hands grabbed my shoulders,
jerking me from bowed to straight. I moaned as my head sloshed with pain.

"Stop embarrassing me,"
Jethro snarled.

Embarrassing him?
Bastard. Arsehole. Son of Satan. I glowered with tear-swimming eyes
into Jethro’s cold uncompassionate gaze. Something flicked over his gold
irises—a dark shadow. That was the only warning I received before his hand came
up and struck me around the side of the head.

I thought I was brave. I thought I
was strong. But I’d never been struck before. Daniel’s slap in the car last
night didn’t count. This abuse had come from a black place—a place inside
Jethro where unsurmountable anger boiled. And it was endless. He may be a
glacier on the outside, but in there…in his heart…he steamed with pressuring
rage.

Crashing to my knees, I curled my
smarting head into my arms. I came from a family who loved each other so much,
a disappointed look or stern word was enough to break your heart. Physical
abuse wasn’t something I knew. It wasn’t something I could prepare for.

Jethro grabbed my hair, pulling me
upright. I held onto his wrists to prevent the tearing pain. My blurry gaze
focused on his grey shirt and perfectly creased jeans.

He glared. "You’ll clean that
up, but for now you have other things to attend to."

Not letting go of my hair, he
carted me toward his father. Every step I took, I tried to hide my exposed
breasts and ignore the breeze between my naked legs. The pinafore Jethro had
put on me barely covered my stomach let alone valuable places. Places I would
give my entire design line to have covered. The stupid maid cap tilted to the
side, clinging to my tangled hair.

I couldn’t count how many men
existed around the table, but their eyes never met mine. Most were glued to my
chest or mesmerized lower down as I side-shuffled to hide as much of my decency
as possible.

But it wasn’t just their eyes
sending spider legs scurrying over my flesh. It was the huge immaculate
paintings of men wearing white wigs, elegant coat and tails, and hunting
regalia glaring down from the dark red walls.

Their eyes weren’t lifeless but
full of distain—somehow they knew a Weaver was in their midst and the crackling
fireplace was useless to stop my chill.

My sentence was to be carried out
with ancestors and family heirlooms as witnesses.

The moment we came to a stop beside
Mr. Hawk, sitting in his ornate dining chair, Jethro jerked my neck back. His
flawless face filled my vision. "You are no longer free. Look. See your
future and understand there’s no sweet talking, begging, or bargaining your way
out of this. You wear the collar. You’re ours completely." Jethro’s voice
was artic, glittering with power.

The collar cut into my skin. I
wanted to spit in his face.

Shoving me toward Mr. Hawk, the old
man snaked an arm around my naked waist, tugging me onto his lap.

"Obey and make me proud, Ms.
Weaver," Jethro said, crossing his arms. He shifted to stand behind his
father’s chair, removing himself from the role of authority, becoming merely a
spectator.

He’s never called me Nila.

The stupid thought came and went on
a heartbeat. Jethro was yet to use my first name.

I shuddered, feeling overwhelmingly
sick again.

Jethro was awful but being disowned
and handed over to a room full of men was worse. I would’ve given anything to
avoid was what about to happen. I would willingly trade all my nights in a bed
and return to the kennels. The hounds were loving, kind…warm.

I sat frozen on Mr. Hawk’s lap.

His hand rested on my upper thigh,
not violating but terrifying. "Now that we all understand each other, I
want you to look at something for me, Nila. Then the festivities will begin.
Every man you serve, you’ll receive another snippet of your history. Only once
you’ve completed your task will you know the entire story and will be free to
spend the afternoon either in the steam baths below the house as a reward or in
solitary confinement in the dungeons as punishment, depending on how well you
please us."

I couldn’t understand how my body
still functioned. Shock turned my limbs to statues, fear made me mute—I died
inside until there was no part of me left. But still my heart kept pumping; my
blood kept flowing—staying alive only for their sick pleasure.

The weight of my mother’s collar
bit into my neck and a question came from no-where. My mother was a Weaver. Her
mother before her was a Weaver. But wouldn’t they have changed their names
according to the surname of their husbands?

I blinked, trying to remember my
father’s last name.

I can’t.

"You look confused. I’ll
permit you to ask a question before we proceed," Mr. Hawk said, settling
me higher on his knee.

I fought my cringe, struggling to
formulate the words. "My mother’s maiden name was Weaver, but she would’ve
changed it when she got married." I glanced at Jethro behind his father’s
chair. He tilted his chin, looking down his nose.

Mr. Hawk shook his head. "That
son of mine hasn’t explained anything has he." Twisting in the seat, he
glanced at Jethro. "What exactly have you been doing? You know information
is what grants us control. We’re the ones in the right. How can she hope to
accept her situation if you keep her in the dark?"