Chapter Nila #2
Common-sense threw freezing water onto my overheated libido. With all the power I possessed, I ordered myself to ignore the tantalizing release and step back into the real world.
Seemed Jethro had come to the same conclusion as the aching awareness between us solidified into obligation. “Get dressed. We’re late.”
Swallowing hard and cursing my heavy body, I asked, “Late for what?”
With an unsteady hand, he held out the towel. He had the willpower of a saint or perhaps he was just as crazy as I feared because he didn’t move to touch me.
Damn him.
His eyes narrowed as his fingers tightened around the towel. “Polo.”
“Polo?” Images of men on horses whacking a ball around a field gave me something else to focus on.
“But...it’s Monday.”
Jethro cocked his head, chuckling under his breath. “You think the day of the week influences the crowd who play with us?” He shook his head. “If you hadn’t have told me it was Monday, I wouldn’t have known. Work days and weekends mean nothing when everyone obeys our schedule.”
He’s so damn arrogant.
Why do I find that so hot?
His eyes fell to my wet body. “Drop your hands.”
“No.”
“Obey me.”
“Why?”
Because you’ll end my anguish and give me what I need?
“Do it, Ms. Weaver. I won’t ask again.”
My tummy twisted. “Just because you’ve seen me doesn’t mean you have the right to see me again.”
He pursed his lips. “I can see and touch and do whatever the hell I want to you whenever I want.”
Temper slowly overrode my lust. I stood taller, glowering at him.
Fine.
He was back to being an arsehole. I could be a bitch.
Dropping my hands, I stood proud and defiant. I ignored the hissing showerhead and dared him to say something cruel. “Go on, look.” I spread my arms, twirling in place. “Seeing as you control my fate, I might as well walk around naked so you can always drink your fill.”
He growled, “Knock it off.”
Snatching the towel from him and throwing it to the floor, I snarled, “No.”
“What the fuck got into you?”
“What got into me? How about seeing proof of what my future holds.”
God, I didn’t mean to bring that up again. But if I wasn’t thinking of sex with my mortal enemy, I was plotting ways to switch coffins from Weavers to Hawks.
“You knew that’s what would happen.”
“Knowing and seeing are entirely different things.”
Jethro pinched the bridge of his nose, digging the tips of his fingers into his eyes as if seeking release from the rapidly building pressure in the room. “You’re driving me mad.”
“At least you finally admit it.”
His head whipped up.
I froze. Shit, I’d gone too far. Again.
“What did you just say?”
The spurting showerhead faded; the rapid thump-thump of my heartbeat faded. Everything faded as I focused on Jethro’s golden eyes—but more than that—I focused on his soul. The ragged, tattered soul that looked so completely lost.
Something inside him scared me to death but also called for help. I backed away—or rather, I tried to morph into the tiled wall behind me.
He glared, then...stepped into the shower.
Water instantly splattered his grey t-shirt and black jodhpurs as he stood over the wriggling water demon. His eyelashes sparkled with droplets as he coldly looked me up and down.
His hand came up. His lips twisted. A flash of violence danced across his features.
I did two things at once.
I cowered and suffered a vertigo wave.
Sickness slammed into me as I raised my arm above my head in defence. “Don’t hit me!” The room spun and I stumbled against the tiles, desperately trying to grasp something to keep me upright.
My vision shot black and I flinched as harsh fingers captured my elbows, giving me an anchor just like Vaughn used to do so many times when we were children. The moment I had a sanctuary, the vertigo left me, depositing me firmly in Jethro’s hold.
His eyes blazed with fury. “You couldn’t hurt me any more than you just did, Ms. Weaver.”
Why?
It’s because you jumped to conclusions.
When I first arrived at Hawksridge, I would’ve been completely justified to cower and protect myself, but only because I didn’t know who Jethro was.
Now, I saw what he hid and violence was just a tool to him.
A tool he didn’t like to use. A tool he’d been made to wield all his life.
But beneath his ferocity was pain. Deep, deep pain that spoke of a man far too immersed in this farce.
He won’t hit me.
Not now. Not after what we’d shared—even after I’d tried to push him away, we were still intrinsically linked. He’d proven that when he’d remained on my side in the solar.
Shit, this is too messed up.
Blinking away the residual sickness, I tried to change the subject. “Stop using my last name.”
He didn’t reply, his face unreadable.
Something shadowed his gaze. Was it regret or annoyance? I couldn’t tell. My heart lurched regardless. Sighing, I faced the true issue, hoping to grant him peace. “I’m sorry if I hurt you. I didn’t mean to.”
He let me go. “You thought I was going to hit you. Your fear...your loathing—you can’t hide the truth. One flinch and you proved what you thought of me. I’m a fucking idiot to believe there was anything more between us.”
Terror erupted in my stomach. Pushing him away was one thing. But having him push me away was entirely another.
Wait...fear and loathing?
He spoke as if he felt what I did. There was no way he could correctly feel my horror at what’d happened.
Glaring, I said, “What was I supposed to think? You raised your hand and expect me not to protect myself? You’ve told me time and time again to fear you.” I should stop, but I couldn’t contain the fire inside. “You should be happy you got your wish.”
Jethro’s jaw clenched. He stood so still, so regal, completely oblivious to the spurting showerhead by his feet. “I’m not happy with any of this, least of all you trying to provoke me.”
“I’m not trying to provoke you.”
He snorted. “Now who’s the liar, Ms. Weaver? First you lie about the reasons why you slept with me, and now this.” His lips twisted. “I’m beginning to think you are as lost as—”
His eyes flared, cutting himself off.
The words dangled between us. I throbbed to speak them. To see his reaction.
...as lost as me...
I was defiant and righteous, but I wasn’t cruel. Holding my tongue, I let the moment pass.
Jethro visibly shuddered, holding up his finger. My eyes fell to his perfectly formed digit and my core clenched thinking of him pushing it inside me and granting me a release.
He sighed. “I came here, not to watch you pleasure yourself or to summon you to get ready, but because I wanted to show you something.”
My attention flickered between his raised finger and his glowing eyes. “Show me what?”
He sighed. “It’s your initials that I bear. Your mark. Your brand. I may be born a Hawk, but I’ve been captured by a Weaver.”
My heart exploded.
Jethro leaned closer, pressing his mouth against my damp ear. “You sewed a cage. You somehow managed to fabricate a web that I only seem to fall deeper into. And this mark is proof of that.”
My chest rose and fell. Was this a proclamation of his feelings for me? It was too strange, too forward for Jethro.
Slowly, I wrapped my fingers around his raised one, running my thumb over the tattoo. “Proof of what?”
Jethro closed his eyes briefly before murmuring, “Proof that no matter what happened on the moor, and no matter the grief you feel at my family’s treatment of you, we are in this together.”
Breaking my hold on him, he bent and gathered the showerhead from the floor.
His hair tickled my lower belly, his mouth so close to my core.
Standing straight, Jethro placed the showerhead back in its cradle and together we stood under a stream of droplets, drenching both of us and thawing out my frozen muscles.
Without a word, he reached for the tap and turned the water off.
Silence.
We didn’t move, dripping wet in a billow of steam. I was naked while Jethro’s powerful form beckoned me closer. His clothes clung to his body in ways that were utterly illegal. His cock was rock hard, his stomach etching his t-shirt with ridges and valleys of muscle.
I swallowed as my need to come bombarded me.
My eyes drifted down his front to the hard length in his jodhpurs. “You can’t keep playing games, Jethro.”
He ran a hand through his damp hair. “Where is the game or joke in any of this?”
“There isn’t any.”
“No, there isn’t.” Grabbing my hand, he pressed his fingertip against my own newly inked one. “This isn’t a game—not anymore. The debts bind us together as long as we’re alive. You’re mine and I told you before not to throw away that gift before knowing what it means.”
My heartbeat lived in my blood, stealing strength from my knees, making me wobbly. “I don’t want to belong to you.”
He shook his head, a few renegade droplets sliding down the locks of salt and pepper hair. His forearms were wide and powerful as he moved to cup my cheek. “It’s too late for that.”
“It’s never too late for the truth.”
Bowing his head, he pressed his forehead against mine. “You’re right. It’s never too late for the truth.”
The way he said it sent my soul scattering for the nearest exit. What is he hiding from me? “If you say I belong to you, then, by rights, your secrets belong to me. They’d be safe with me.”
He sucked in a breath, his eyes trained on my lips. “I know what you’re asking.”
“What am I asking?”
He smiled sadly. “You want to know why I am the way I am. You want to know where I disappear to when I need space and you want to know how to use my weakness for you against my family.”
Yes. I also want to understand why I feel this way. Why, when faced with the graves of my ancestors, do I so quickly forget and seek what I cannot find?
His fingers tightened against my cheek, holding me steadfast. His head tilted, bringing his lips within a feather-frond distance from mine.
My mouth tingled, sparking for contact. The anticipation raised my blood until I needed a cold shower instead of hot.