Needle&Thread: All I asked was a simple question, but you jumped down my throat. What’s your deal? Don’t tell me. I can guess. You’re only happy when you’re in charge. But guess what? I can simply delete your number and never reply to you again. You were the one who found me, remember?
I breathed hard, huddling over my phone. I wasn’t done. It was refreshing to finally allow myself to be angry. I wanted to pour it all out before I could swallow it back down again.
Needle&Thread: I think you need to come again, Kite. Your temper is completely uncalled for and misdirected. All I implied was a meeting. One phone call. A kiss maybe if we hit it off in person. Why is that so hard for you? I’ll tell you why. Because you’re commitment phobic and a cheater.
“Congratulations on your collection, Nila. I’m sure—”
I looked up into the eyes of a stranger. The woman had plump lips and wore black eyeshadow.
She paused mid-sentence. “Are you okay?”
I hated her concern. I hated that I came across as some stupid wallflower who could make exquisite clothing but never grace someone’s arm. I don’t want to be here anymore.
I needed fresh air. I needed silence.
Him.
The silent masculinity of Jethro Hawk suddenly called to me like a cooling balm after a burning fire. He might scare me, but he had a body to touch and a mind to explore. Motives or not—he wanted me for the evening. And I was feeling reckless.
“Yes, I’m fine. Excuse me.” Bunching my skirts, I dodged groups of people, heading for the exit. My phone buzzed as I reached the door.
Kite007: Don’t call me that. You lost the right to call me anything the moment you changed from tempting to annoying. I’m not a cheater or commitment phobic. And it’s not hard for me to deny a meeting with you, because I already have women to fuck. I already have enough physical connections and stupid girls making demands of me. You just broke something that wasn’t broken. Congratu-fucking-lations.
My nostrils flared. I broke it? There was nothing to break! This whole thing had been a mistake. Unknowingly he’d taken advantage of some loser gasping for friendship. I was done being that girl. I was done living life in black and white.
I wanted colour. I wanted passion. And there was only one man who could give me what I wanted tonight. I would use him and throw him away—just like Kite did to me.
Kite007: If you didn’t know—that was me cutting you loose. You’re acting like a brat. Go and get laid. That’s what I’m about to do. You want to know things about me? How about this? The woman I meant to text when I mistakenly messaged you is coming over for her long overdue reward. Don’t message me again. The jerking off to your timid replies has bored me. Whoops, I just lost your number….
My teeth gritted. My heart thundered. Pain was swamped by livid rage. How dare he break up with me? How dare he hurt me! How dare I let myself be hurt by a fucking arsehole who I’d never met?
I didn’t care. I don’t care.
But I did care.
I’m so stupid!
Stopping in the entrance way, my hands shook, jiggling my glowing screen. People mingled around, skirting the huge puddle of black material from my dress. I stood surrounded, yet I was all alone.
Tears pricked my eyes, but I swallowed them back. It was my own stupid fault. I’m so stupid. Stupid…
I sent my final message.
Needle&Thread: When you end up alone and unloved, I hope you remember this moment. You aren’t breaking up with me. I’m breaking up with you. Thank God I’m not a nun so I can curse the very ground you walk upon. You don’t want to meet me? Fine. You just got your wish. I’m done. (hope you wank so much your dick falls off)
Whirling around, I faced the doorway—the same doorway leading to a man who was scary and cold and silent but he was real. He had fingers to touch me with and a mouth to kiss. Who cared who he was? I could be stupid and use him for my own release.
Tonight I wouldn’t be draining a treadmill of life. Tonight I would be riding a man who terrified me in some recess of my soul. Tonight I would be selfish and wicked and cruel.
Tonight…I would be Jethro’s.
I SAT ON my newest purchase, resting like a mechanical shadow by the curb. It didn’t glint or gleam. It didn’t entice or welcome. It waited in black silence ready to charge into the night.
Give her options. Don’t make her suspect. Threaten only when necessary. Above all, take her without causing attention.
The rules my father told me the morning I left to fly to Milan, repeated in my head. I was obeying. Even though it was fucking hard. I struggled to balance my true nature with that of a polite gentleman, coaxing a skittish woman out for dinner.
As if I would be interested in a girl like her. Meek. Skinny. Beyond fucking sheltered it was insane.
Grabbing the throttle of my bike, I waged with ignoring my father’s rules and stalking into the venue and stealing Nila Weaver in front of everyone. She could scream, shout—it wouldn’t make a difference. But that wasn’t allowed.
The other option was I could just fuck off and kidnap her from her hotel room.
She has to come willingly.
My father’s voice again. Kidnapping was the last resort.
I growled under my breath.
I’d let her go, not because of some decency, or concern of what would happen to her family’s happiness, or even the upcoming pain in her future. No, I let her go, because I was my father’s son and followed a plan. But there was a deeper reason, too.
I was a hunter. Skilled with both bow and arrow and gun. I stalked the weaker and slit their throats when they succumbed to my careful aim.
But sometimes I liked to…miss. I liked to give them a small window of safety, all while closing the noose when they didn’t expect it.
I liked to play with my food.
The chase was the best part. Hunting was intoxicating. And knowing I had the power to snuff out Nila Weaver’s life the moment I caught her gave me a certain…thrill.
That was the only reason I restrained myself and followed the rules.
I had no secrets of why I would stain my hands with her blood. I had no misplaced vendettas or agendas. Everything that would come to pass was for one simple and undisputable fact.
There was a debt to be paid. And I was the method of extraction. Plain and simple.
I’m a Hawk. She’s a Weaver.
That was all I needed to know.
In the library a week ago, while sipping on a ten thousand pound bottle of cognac, my father proceeded to tell me a little of our history. He told me gruesome things. Dastardly things. Tears shed. Blood spilled. He told me what happened to Nila’s mother.
He also told me why every firstborn Weaver girl had a stain upon her life. I understood it. I accepted it. I was given the task to uphold my family’s honour. And I fully intended to extract payment as meticulously and as painfully as possible.
It wasn’t often I was given the opportunity to make my bastard of a father proud. I didn’t intend to let him down.
Even though I wouldn’t enjoy it.
Liar. You will enjoy it.
A tight smile twisted my lips. Fine. I would enjoy it. Nila Weaver would be my greatest trophy. I might not be able to display her head on my wall once I was through, but I would treasure the memories. Something told me I would no longer find pleasure in hunting hapless deer after I’d hunted a woman.
Oh, yes. I would enjoy ruining Nila, because I liked breaking things. But not in a gruesome barbaric way. I liked to break them smoothly, gently, ruthlessly. I liked to think I transformed creatures from their present to their potential.