Final Debt (Indebted #6) Page 6

  I ought to be relieved he’d left. I only had to focus on Cut. But somehow, Cut’s promises of craving action and enjoying what he would do to me layered my lungs with terror.

  Cut pressed on my lower spine. “Come along. Time for your part in tonight’s festivities.”

  My heels dug into soil. “My part?”

  “I told you.” His gaze glowed. “You’re the sacrifice.”

  “No. I’m nothing of the sort.”

  I’d been my father’s sacrifice. Tex had given me up to Jethro that night in Milan with no fuss. I was done being forfeited for the greater good.

  “You don’t have a choice, Nila.” Cut dragged me closer to the fire, despite my unwillingness.

  Nervousness exploded in time to the tribal drum as he led me through the dancing throng and pushed me onto a grass mat at the head of the bonfire. My wrists burned in their twine, sore and achy.

  The entire time we’d been in the mine, he hadn’t released me. What did he think I’d do? Grab a pick-axe and hack away at his head? Run and dig myself to safety?

  The texture of the woven mat beneath my toes told me this tribe were weavers, too. It took great skill to create items from plant life and not cloth or silk.

  Cut sat beside me on a raised platform decorated with ostrich feather and lion skin. He didn’t look at me, just wrapped the rope tethering me in his fist and smiled as the women danced harder, faster, wilder.

  I didn’t want to be distracted. I didn’t want to fall under the spell of magical music and sensual swaying, but the longer we sat there, the more enthralled I became. I’d only seen this culture on documentaries and television. I’d travelled to Asia with V and Tex to gather diamantes and fabrics, but I’d never been on this continent.

  My horizons were so small compared to what the world had to offer.

  Sitting there at the feet of my murderer, watching his employees dance and welcome, highlighted just how much my life lacked. I’d let work dictate and rob me of living.

  If only Jethro was here.

  His handsome face popped into my mind. I wanted to run my fingers over his five o’ clock shadow. I wanted to kiss his thick, black eyelashes. I wanted to kiss him, forgive him; pretend the world was a better place.

  The more the music trickled into me, the more my body reacted. Sensual need replaced the damp panic of the mine, making my nipples ache at the thought of Jethro touching me.

  My body grew twisty and excited, cursing the distance between us and the circumstances I was in.

  My eyes smarted as smoke from the fire cast us in sooty clouds. The rhythmical footsteps and infectious freedom of the melody slowly replaced my blood.

  There was something erotic about the dance. Something slinked nonverbally, speaking of connection and lust and love and forever togetherness. Bodily communication superseded that of spoken languages.

  My heart throbbed with lovesickness. I missed him. I wanted him. I needed to see him one last time and tell him how much he meant to me.

  I love you, Jethro…Kite.

  Cut hadn’t lied when he said superstitions had to be acknowledged. Over the course of three songs, the local tribe welcomed their boss with handmade gifts of beads and pottery, delivered food of roasted meat and fruits, and danced numerous numbers.

  At one point in the ceremony, a woman with bare breasts and white paint smeared on her throat and chest reverently placed a flower headband on Cut’s head.

  He nodded with airs and graces, smiling indulgently as the woman merged back with her tribesman.

  My skin prickled, a sixth sense saying I was watched.

  Squinting past the brightness and sting of the fire, I searched for the owner’s gaze.

  Buzzard.

  Daniel lurked on the outskirts of the fire, his eyes not on the half-naked women but on me. His lips parted, gaze undressing me, raping me from afar. In his hand rested a crudely made cup, no doubt holding liquor.

  One song turned into a mecca of soulful salvation. A young girl broke away from the dancing women, moving forward with a small bowl and a blade.

  I sucked in a breath as she looked at Cut and pointed at me with the knife.

  A knife?

  Why the hell does she have a knife?

  Cut nodded, tugging my leash. I tried to fight it, but it was no use. Effortlessly, he forced me to present my tied hands.

  My lungs seized as the girl bowed at my feet, placing the bowl on the dirt. Unfurling my palms, she kissed each finger, murmuring a chant that sent spiders scurrying down my spine.

  I tried to tug away, but Cut held me firm.

  “Wait—”

  The girl flashed her blade.

  I gritted my teeth. “No—”

  Before I could stop her, she sliced the flesh of my palm and held the bleeding cut over the bowl.

  Ow!

  Pain instantly lashed over the wound, stinging and raw. Blood welled, dripping thickly into the girl’s collection.

  “Why did you do that?” My voice bordered on rage and curiosity. My hand begged to curl over the wound and protect it.

  The girl didn’t reply; she merely waited until a small crimson puddle rested in the bowl before letting me go.

  The music turned to a fever, the men pounding their drums, the women kicking their heels. The little girl returned with her bloody prize, dancing and howling at the moon as voices rose in an ancient euphony.

  My entire body was on fire.

  My blood flowing fast.

  My skin flushing bright.

  My fear twisted into intoxication.

  I wanted to join them. To become wild.

  My wound was forgotten. My predicament and future peril ignored.

  The moment the girl took my blood, I’d become more than just an outcast in this foreign land, I’d become one of them.

  Cut sucked in a breath, something odd and not entirely unwelcome throbbing between us. He tore his gaze from mine as the girl finished her pirouette and with a squeal the bowl landed in the fire, shattering against hot coals, hissing with burning blood. A potent smell laced the air as the dance turned crazed, choreographed by gravity-defying shamans.

  To be somewhere where life wasn’t about TV or work-stress or mundane normalness—to see people having fun and partying—intoxicated me better than any experience.

  The night came alive with singing and stomping feet and the unravelling power inside billowed faster. I wanted to get up. I wanted to dance. I wanted to forget who I was and let go.

  This was an experience of a lifetime and my lifetime was almost over. My mother was here. My grandmother was here. Every ancestor had somehow come to life and existed in the flames of the enchanted fire.

  We all lived the same path…and failed. I was supposed to be the last Weaver taken but time no longer held sway on my plans. It charged forward, dragging me with hardship, hurtling me toward a conclusion I didn’t know how to stop.

  A woman appeared in front of me. Coconut beads and crocodile teeth decorated her neck, draping between naked breasts. “You. Drink.” Shoving a crudely made bowl beneath my chin, she tipped the milky substance toward my lips.

  I reared back, shaking my head. “No, thank you.”

  Cut tugged on the rope, his face alive with power. “Drink.”

  I pursed my lips.

  “You must.” The woman tried again.

  I turned my face away. The liquid smelled rank and rotten.

  “You will drink, Nila.” Lashing out, Cut fisted my hair, keeping my head in place as the woman once again held the bowl to my mouth.

  I scrunched my face, protesting. The silty liquid splashed against my lips.

  I didn’t know what it was, but it was powerful—the otherworldly smell warned me I wouldn’t be the same if I ingested it. I wouldn’t like the results if I gave in.

  Stop! Please, stop.

  The woman tried again, bruising my mouth with the rim of the bowl. Crushed up leaves and smashed up roots lingered on the bottom, splashing
with her attempts. The woman cursed in Swahili, looking at Cut for help. “She won’t.”

  “She will.” Still holding my hair, he reached with his free hand and captured my bleeding palm. “Open.” With ferocity, he dug his fingernail into the fresh wound. I did my best to prevent drinking, but his hold was agonising.

  The heat and pain wrenched my mouth open, and a gulp of disgusting liquid shot down my throat.

  My eyes watered.

  My stomach retched.

  I spluttered.

  The woman nodded with satisfaction. “Good.” She stood, slipping back to her fellow dancers.

  Alone, Cut hugged me, kissing my cheek. “Good girl.” His tongue slipped out, licking a droplet off my lower lip like a lover would his bride. “Let it transform you. Let it own you.”

  I shuddered, fighting his embrace. “Let go of me.”

  Cut chuckled, kissing the corner of my mouth. “Don’t fight it. You can’t fight it.”

  “I’ll fight whatever you do to me.” Our eyes clashed. My heart roared with hatred.

  But then…

  Something mellowed.

  Something simmered.

  Tiptoeing through my blood, stealing rationality and sanity and coherence.

  “What…what did yo—you give m—me?” My ability to speak in correct dialect fumbled as the drink merged faster with my thoughts.

  Cut beamed wide; his face rollicked as my vision washed in and out. “Give it another moment. You’ll see how useless fighting is.” His lips caressed mine again. Softly, teasingly, coaxing me to react.

  And this time…I couldn’t hate it.

  My loathing turned to liking. My hatred to harrowing welcome.

  My heartbeat left the epicentre of my chest, cannonballing into every extremity. My toes felt it. My ears felt it. Even the strands of my hair thump-thumped in time.

  I’m hot.

  I’m cold.

  I was sick.

  I was cured.

  What’s happening?

  A gust, a gale, a monsoon ripped through my body. Whatever the woman had given me tore up my denials and aversion, switching them into the sudden overwhelming desire to kiss him back.

  God, a kiss. Such a delicacy. A tongue, such a gift.

  Kiss him.

  I tore myself away, spitting on the flax mat. “No!”

  Cut turned into a rippling watermark, decorated with flames and starlight. “I don’t believe you.” His fingers traced my skin, drawing hungry blood to the surface. My mouth said no but my body said yes.

  No…this can’t…

  I moaned, struggling against the ropes as I fell deeper and deeper into whatever spell he’d fed me.

  I didn’t know what lacquered my mouth.

  I didn’t know what made its fiery way into my belly.

  But I did know it was aggressive and possessive and persuasive.

  Vicious.

  Far, far stronger than anything I’d ever had before.

  I can’t fight it.

  My tongue went numb, followed by my throat and skin. My pussy throbbed for release. My mind howled for connection. I’d never been so disappointed in myself nor so annoyed at preventing such delicious need from billowing.

  I split in two.

  I became something I wasn’t.

  I became a creature with no morals or humanity, just an animal wanting to fuck.

  Shivers hijacked me as I fought against the overwhelming sensation to let go. To give in to the magic. To be swept away by the river of sin.

  “Do it, Nila. Let it take you.” Cut’s fingers were tiny birds upon my spine, feathering into my hair.

  I moaned, trembling and wanting.

  “Let it win and tonight won’t be rape. Tonight will be the best fucking sex of your life.”

  No.

  Yes.

  No!

  Oh, my God.

  His words were invitations to my destruction, beckoning closer with every word.

  My heartbeat thundered harder, feeding the drug into every part of me.

  “That’s it. Let go. Forget about the past and future. Think about how good my cock would feel. How delicious it would be for me to fuck you right here.”

  Fuck.

  Sex.

  Mate.

  God…

  I squeezed my eyes, swirling down a rabbit hole of fanaticism.

  His fingers licked through my hair, blazing with lust and horror. “You want me, Nila. Admit it.”

  My soul turned wild, snarling at the power of the drug.

  The fire burned brighter.

  The stars twinkled faster.

  The dancers twirled harder.

  The world twisted and turned, rushing quickly then slowing down as the hallucinogenic played havoc with my senses.

  I lost track of time.

  I lost track of myself.

  My mind swam with images of the dark dripping walls of the mine. My hands locked and squeezed, smearing my blood over Jethro's initials, wanting nothing more than to touch myself and orgasm.

  I need to come.

  I need to fuck and love and consummate.

  I was a black and white painting, an enigma, a shivering contradiction.

  I was numb.

  I was alive.

  I was dead.

  I was reborn.

  What’s happening to me?

  I shook my head, fighting the intensity, refusing to become hypnotised by sex and want and music.

  But then hands were grabbing mine, tugging me to my feet.

  Cut’s laughter laced around me. Commands to dance consumed me.

  I tried to dart away, but the ground rolled like a funhouse. Vertigo latched me in its horrendous arms.

  I fell forward. I was caught.

  I swayed to the side. I was propped up.

  Daniel’s eyes. Cut’s eyes. Laughter. Dangerous promises. Lust and greed and pain.

  I couldn’t.

  I couldn’t fight it anymore.

  My vertigo balanced. My veins sang with drunkenness and I lost everything.

  In a circle of sweaty ebony women, I shed my worries, my fears, my hopes. I ceased to be Nila. I stopped being a victim.

  The diamonds on my throat increased in weight and warmth, squeezing me tight and drenching me in rainbows from the fire.

  I stopped pining for Jethro.

  I stopped fearing my future.

  I stepped into the magic and danced.

  AFRICA.

  The witching hour stole the continent as I ran through customs and exploded through the arrival gates. Sir Seretse Khama Airport welcomed me back before spewing me out into the chilly night of Gaborone. I hadn’t been in Botswana for two years, yet it felt as if I’d never left.

  I avoided coming here. I couldn’t handle the emotional currents from our workers. I hated feeling their toil and trouble. I hated seeing secrets and shimmers of how unhappy they were.

  The last time I’d come, I’d talked to Kes about doing something about it.

  He became our official mediator. Behind Cut’s back, he travelled often and built a rapport with the men who’d been in our employment for centuries. In his quintessential style of helping and generosity, he improved the living conditions, gave them higher salaries, safer workplace, and secret bonuses for their plight.

  He ensured Cut’s slaves turned into willing employees with health benefits and satisfaction.

  Cut didn’t know.

  There was so much he didn’t know.

  But then again, what Cut didn’t know didn’t hurt him. And it meant our enterprise ran smoother because no ill will and destitution could undermine it.

  “Goddammit, where are the fucking drivers?” I jogged toward the vehicle stand, searching for any sign of hailing a lift.

  Taxis were few and lingering opportunists rare at this time of night.

  I hadn’t slept in days. My wound had ruptured and my fever grew steadily worse. But I didn’t have time to care. My senses were shredded from
the flight and it was all I could do to remain standing.

  But Nila was with my father.

  Nila was running out of time.

  I’m coming.

  A single shadow appeared up ahead. Turning my jog into a sprint, I clenched my jaw and approached the scruffy African man. His long hair was braided and his jeans torn in places.

  I pointed at his muddy car. “Is that your four-wheel drive?”

  The guy glowered, crossing his arms. His black eyes looked me up and down, his muscles priming for a fight.

  In Africa, you didn’t approach strangers unless you had a weapon and were prepared to battle. Humanity wasn’t as civilized here, mainly because so much strife kept the country salivating for war.

  “What’s it to you, white boy?” His Afrikaans accent heralded memories of playing in the dirt at our mine as a child. Of digging beside workers and chipping unwilling diamonds from ancient rock.

  “I’ll pay you two thousand pounds if you’ll drive me where I need to go.”

  His territorial anger faded a little, slipping into suspicious hope. “What about I just steal the money and leave you dead on the side of the road?”

  I stood to my full height, even though it hurt my side. “You won’t do that.”

  The man uncrossed his arms, his fists curling. “Oh, no? Why not?”

  “Because in order to be paid you have to take me. I don’t have the money on me.”

  “This a scam?”

  “No scam.”

  The guy leaned forward, his eyes narrowing for battle. “Tell me who you are.”

  I smiled.

  My name carried weight in England, just like it carried weight here.

  However, here I was more than an heir to a billion dollar company. I was more than a lord, and master polo player, and vice president to Black Diamonds.

  Here, I was life.

  I was death.

  I was blood and power and royalty.

  “I’m a Hawk.”

  And that was all it took.

  The man lost his indignation, slipping into utmost respect. He turned and opened the door of his dinged-up 4WD, bowing in welcome. “It would be an honour to drive you, boss. I know where you need to go.”

  Of course, he did.

  Everyone here knew of our mine. They knew it was untouchable. They knew not to raid or pillage. That sort of respect went a long way in this country.