He growled under his breath. “Don’t judge me. Don’t judge my actions based on what you can’t see.” Stomping in front of me, he said over his shoulder, “I know who I am, and I know what I do is right.”

Animosity flared between us.

I stayed silent, following him down the corridor toward the wing where I’d spent most time with Kestrel. We passed the room where he’d given me the Weaver Journal and headed into the hall where the library was located. My mind flickered back to the afternoon he’d found me, asking if Jethro had been to see me since completing the First Debt.

At the time, his question wasn’t too unusual. But now it took on a whole new meaning. He wasn’t asking about me. He’d been asking about his brother—keen to know how absorbing my pain had affected his empathetic sibling.

God, how bad had Jethro felt? How much did my thoughts destroy him?

“In there.” Flaw stopped outside the library.

So many memories were already stored in this place. So many breakthroughs and breakdowns as I grew from girl to woman.

Not making eye contact, he muttered, “They’re waiting for you. Better get inside.” Without a goodbye, he turned on his heel and left.

His retreating back upset me all over again. He was the last connection I had to Kestrel’s kindness and to Jethro’s ultimate plans.

Come back.

My soul scrunched tight as the ghosts of Jethro and Kes haunted the walls of their home. In twenty-four hours, I’d gone through the cycles of bereavement: disbelief, shock, despair, rage…I doubted I’d ever get through acceptance, but I embraced my anger, building a barrier that only clearheaded, cold-hearted fury could enter.

I didn’t want any other emotion when facing Cut and Daniel.

Touching the dagger hilt, I straightened my shoulders and pushed open the library doors.

My eyes widened as I stepped into the old world charm of book-bindings and scripted letters. The large beanbags where Kes had found me dozing still scattered. The window seats waited for morning sunshine and a bookworm to absorb themselves in fairy-tale pages.

This place was a church of stories and imagination. But then my gaze fell on the antichrist, polluting the sanctity of peace.

“Nice of you to join us, Nila.” Cut waved at the one and only empty chair at the large oak table.

My teeth clamped together. I didn’t reply.

“Come.” He snapped his fingers. “Sit. We’ve waited long enough.”

You can do this.

Obey until an opportunity presents itself.

Then…

kill

him.

I drifted forward, drawn by the multiple pairs of eyes watching me.

Bonnie, Daniel, Jasmine, Cut, and four men I didn’t recognise waited for me to join them. The four men wore sombre black suits and aubergine ties—a uniform painting them with the same brush.

I drew closer to the table.

Daniel stood up, wrapping a vile arm around my waist. “Missed you, Weaver.” Planting a kiss on my cheek, he whispered, “Whatever happens here tonight doesn’t mean shit, you hear me? I’m coming for you, and I don’t fucking care what they say.”

I shuddered with disgust.

Withdrawing the hate from his voice, Daniel transformed into a cordial smile. “Sit.” With a gallant act, he pulled out the empty seat. “Take a load off. This is going to be a long meeting.”

I wanted to touch his pulse, count his heartbeat, relish in knowing they were numbered.

Soon, Daniel…soon…

Locking my jaw, so I didn’t say anything I might regret, I sat down.

The men in matching suits never looked away. They ranged in age from sixties with greying hair to mid-thirties with blond buzz cut.

Daniel kicked my chair forward so my stomach kissed the lip of the table. I sucked in a breath, straightening my spine uncomfortably in order to tolerate the tight arrangement.

His golden eyes met mine, smug and vainglorious.

I’ll cut that look right off your face.

My fingers twitched for my knife.

Daniel sat beside me, while the person on my other side hissed, “No speaking unless spoken to. Got it?”

My eyes shot to Jasmine. Her hands rested on the table, a cute gold ring circling her middle finger, while her seat perched on a small ramp, bringing the wheels in line with the chairs of the other guests. She looked like a capable heiress, dressed in a black smock with a black ribbon around her throat. She was the epitome of a mourning sister.

I don’t buy it.

I’d misjudged her—thought she was decent and caring. She’d fooled me the most.

Tearing my gaze from her, I glanced at the remaining Hawks. Just like Jasmine, they all wore black. Bonnie looked as if she’d jumped into a jungle of black lace and fastened it with glittering diamond broaches. Cut wore an immaculate suit with black shirt and tie. Even Daniel looked fit for the opera in a glossy onyx ensemble and satin waistcoat.

I’d never seen so much darkness—both on the outside and inside. They’d discarded their leather jackets in favour of mourning attire.

All for what?

To garner sympathy from outsiders? To play the part of grieving family, even though they were the cause of murder?

I hate you.

I hate all of you.

My hands balled on the table. I wanted to say so many things. I wanted to launch onto the table and stab them with my knife. But I heeded Jasmine’s warning and stayed put. There was no other way.

Cut cleared his throat. “Now that we’re all here, you may begin, Marshall.” His gaze pinned the oldest stranger. “I appreciate you coming after work hours, but this matter has to be dealt with quickly.”