He stiffened, understanding. “Unless you ask, I won’t say what the letters stand for.”

Secrets shadowed his eyes. Secrets his family weren’t privy to but I was. What did that mean? What did any of this mean?

Deciding this wasn’t the time nor the place to discuss something that would no doubt end in another fight, I tilted my head and played dumb instead. Taunting Jethro was too rewarding to let it go. “You want me to ask? Fine. What does the K stand for?”

Jethro frowned.

Kes chuckled. So far, he’d honoured my request for him to keep my knowledge a secret. Turned out he didn’t need to keep it, after all.

“Your turn.” Jethro deliberately avoided the question by handing me the gun.

I took it, my mouth plopping wide. “What do I do with this?”

Jethro unfolded his hand and carefully rested his knuckles on my knee. The submissive position of his hand and the gentleness in which he touched me sent unwanted pinwheels sparking in my blood.

We both gasped at the contact. My vision went grey on the edges as I fought the overwhelming urge to forget what I’d seen yesterday and give in to him. To trust in my original plan that I had the power to make him care. To trust in my heart and permit it to enjoy this blistering lust.

Jethro’s voice was low and full of gravel. “You have to mark me in return.”

To brand him. Own him. Command him.

It would be a wish come true. Perhaps, if I tattooed him with my name, I could cast a spell over him to become mine, not theirs. To use him once and for all.

Cut jumped in. “Each firstborn involved in the Debt Inheritance must wear the tally. It’s been that way for generations. I must say I’m enjoying watching Jethro be so obedient. I thought his unwillingness to be marked by a Weaver would mean I’d have to strap him down.”

Jethro threw him a black look.

Waving at Jethro’s awaiting hand, Cut added, “Do it, Nila. Mark him with your initials so even when you’re no longer with us, he will remember his time with you.”

I blinked, unable to stop my heart from squeezing in pain.

No longer here.

When Jethro takes my life.

I wanted to hurl crude threatening insults but held my tongue. We would see who would die by the end of this.

Bending over Jethro’s fingers, the very same fingers that had been inside me, I hexed the heat in my cheeks and twisting desire in my core.

Looking up, I caught Jethro’s gaze. It glowed with need, mirroring mine. How could I hate this man? Positively hate him for doing what he did to my family, yet still want him so badly?

Bastard.

Even now, even in a room full of his flesh and blood amidst talk of murder and debts, he still managed to invoke uncontrollable need from me.

I wanted to stab him with the tattoo gun, not mark him.

Taking a deep breath, I turned on the button and jumped at the powerful vibration of the tool. “How hard do I press?”

“Just like a pen, Nila. There’s no trick. Not for something as simple as this,” Kes said. He hadn’t stopped standing over us, watching everything, saying nothing.

Brushing wayward hair from my eyes, I leaned further over Jethro’s fingers.

The second I pressed the jumping needle against his skin, he locked his muscles. Instead of tensing against the pain though, I sensed he wanted more. He swayed into me, his lungs inhaling deep. I shivered to think he willingly breathed in my smell, imprinting not just my initials but my essence, too.

Biting my lip, I drew on his flesh. My hand shook and sweat dampened my palms. After ten minutes, I sat up and rubbed at the cramp in my lower back.

His index finger held the same torture as mine.

Subtly, I glanced at my burning tattoo. First, Jethro had made me sign the Sacramental Pledge, and then made me sign his body.

If we hadn’t been bound by sin and debts and a lust that refused to be denied, we were now. Locked, joined, and forever linked until one of us died.

It was tragic to think I’d gone my entire life never finding anyone who interested me, only to find such chemistry with a man who I had to kill before he killed me.

Jethro cradled his hand, glaring at the black ink imbedded in his fingertip. He traced the pattern almost reverently. “What’s your middle name?” he whispered. His question was too delicate and imploring for the room full of violence and Hawks.

I wanted to slap him and show him how much he’d slipped from the icy son he was supposed to be.

He looked up, waiting for my answer.

My heart panged. It wasn’t a middle name. It was more than that. I missed the loving address that my father and brother called me. It was who I was. Who I’d been raised to be.

Threads.

“Doesn’t matter.”

Turning off the gun, I placed it back in the box.

Cut clapped his hands. “Perfect. I’m so glad the formalities have been completed.” Glaring at Jethro, he added, “Don’t forget next time, son.”

Jethro scowled, climbing to his feet. “Are we dismissed?”

Dismissed? Not only was the word choice like an obedient child seeking approval to leave his elders, but his voice sounded odd. Strained, gruff—an explosive blend that seemed as if he’d detonate at any moment.

“Fine.”

Without another word, Jethro stormed out, leaving me alone with Cut, Daniel, and Kes.

What the hell?

I might not like him, but I was his. I needed him to protect me from his bloody family.

Instantly, the atmosphere in the room changed. It rolled thick and heavy: testosterone, possession, vileness. Why didn’t I feel it as strongly when Jethro was by my side? And why had he left in such a hurry without me?