Cut snapped his fingers, ordering Daniel to produce whatever was in the box. The carved wooden lid opened, revealing its treasure.

I leaned forward, trying to glimpse what was inside. My mouth hung open at the glint of needles, vials of ink, and alcoholic wipes.

Oh, my God.

“What—” I swallowed. “You can’t mean—”

Jethro said, “The tally is a tattoo. Permanent, and for all intent, non-erasable.” His black t-shirt and dark jeans made it seem as if he bristled with bleak acceptance. “After every debt, you earn a mark.”

My stomach twisted. “So, it’s not enough to take pain from me in way of debts—you have to drill me with ink, too?”

Cut replied, “It isn’t just you who has to wear the tally.” Pointing at Jethro, he added, “My son will wear the mark, too. And it’s entirely up to you where it goes on your body. But bear in mind that it will match on Jethro. A mirror image. Like for like.”

I shivered. “Excuse me?”

Jethro leaned closer, granting comfort from a body that’d been in mine. “Pick a place, Ms. Weaver. Just pick. I have things to do and want this over.”

His sudden temper left my mouth hanging open. Everything he was and pretended to be filled me with rage. “I hate you.”

Jethro’s jaw twitched. “Doesn’t change anything. Now…where do you want it?”

Daniel smirked, gathering the tattoo equipment and installing a small cartridge of black ink into the hand-held gun. “I suggest you pick, or I’ll just mark you where I think it would look best.” He rubbed his chin. “Your forehead, perhaps.”

I sank into the couch, wanting to run from this madman. Kes smiled softly, standing beside his moronic brother. “It doesn’t hurt, Nila.” He pointed at his bird tattoo on his forearm. “A few stings and then you get used to it. But in your case, the mark will take a few minutes, instead of a few hours.”

I stared coldly in his direction. When he’d hugged me before, I’d had the overpowering urge to push him away. To slap him. To scream at him to drop the act and show the truth. If Jethro struggled to hide his true self, then Kestrel was a genius at it.

I had no clue who he was.

The thought that any of these men were on my side or understood what I faced was laughable after seeing my family’s graves. I wanted nothing to do with them.

Not anymore.

Instead of seducing Jethro to make him care enough to free me, I now just wanted him dead. I could see the allure of martyrdom. If I had a bomb, I would willingly strap it to my chest and press the trigger if it meant I could take out these men when I died.

Kes lowered his voice. “I’ve seen the scars on your back. I know the pain you endured from the First Debt. If you can survive that—you can definitely survive this.”

I couldn’t breathe. Not only had they taken everything, but now they wanted to mark my body—yet another reminder of my fate.

When I didn’t respond, Kes tried again. “You don’t have to say anything, just point to where you want the mark then you can go.”

Go? Go where? Home? To the nearest black market and buy a bazooka to destroy them?

Kes moved closer, crowding me so I had a Hawk in every direction. “It won’t hurt. Much.”

Jethro snapped.

Soaring upright, he shoved Kes away and snatched the Tally Box from Daniel. “You’re fucking suffocating us. Give us some space, for Christ’s sake.”

My heart twitched.

Jethro’s temper was lethal, his position in the family high up the ranking pole, but the passion underlying his command sounded suspiciously like he’d picked my side over them.

I should’ve been overjoyed.

I should’ve done everything in my power to thank Jethro and encourage him to fall for me.

But I had nothing left but hate.

Kes chuckled. “Don’t worry, Jet. Just trying to make it easier on Nila.” He planted his hand on Jethro’s shoulder, squeezing tight.

I expected Jethro to shrug him off and punch him. Instead, he relaxed slightly, nodding as silent communication ran between the brothers.

What the hell does Kes know about Jethro? And how does he use it so effortlessly to keep his brother calm?

Daniel stole my hand, running a sharp fingernail along the centre of my palm. I jumped, gasping in pain and surprise. I yanked my hand back, trying to dislodge the crazy creep.

No way did I want him infecting me.

A hand was the one part of a person’s body that touched so much. The first point of contact for new experiences. A five-fingered tool to get through life.

“Stop touching me.”

Jethro slapped his brother’s hand aside, allowing me to tuck my palm between my legs.

Cut growled, “Stop chitchatting and get it done. You have five seconds to decide where the tally will go, Ms. Weaver. Otherwise, I shall decide for you.”

Jethro sucked in a harsh breath, watching me from the corner of his eye.

Your fingers.

What? I shook my head at the idea. It was a stupid place for a tattoo.

It makes sense.

My reasoning laid out my conclusion in crystal clarity.

I intend to use my hands to slaughter them in the future.

If my fingers wore their mark—bore the signs of pain extracted at their whim—it was only fair that they extracted pain in return. My hands were currently virgins in murder, but soon they would smother in their blood.

It’s only fitting to wear their tally while I steal their lives.