This afternoon it wasn’t business being discussed. It was Nila.

This was her welcome luncheon.

A tradition unbroken for hundreds of years. An esteemed event that all our brethren knew and immensely enjoyed.

The day they all sample a Weaver.

Slamming my palm against the double doors, I jerked Nila into the room. She wheeled to a stop, her face losing its colour in favour of snowy white. I searched her features for fear. I hunted for terror, but I only witnessed blank resignation.

Turning away from her, I focused on what she couldn’t look away from.

Men.

Twenty-seven to be exact. Some smooth faced and young, others bearded and old. Some rich and well-spoken, others destitute and filthy. But they all had something in common. They belonged to the Diamonds and were our most trusted employees. Flaw, Fracture, and Cushion weren’t present nor were they fully fledged members—their task was to watch Vaughn and Archibald Weaver from doing anything…reckless.

Nila struggled, trying to take her hand back. I clamped my fingers around her, not giving an inch. “Don’t be rude, Ms. Weaver. Say hello and be courteous. This is, after all, your welcome lunch.”

She jolted, shying backward, testing my hold.

My father sat at the end of the extremely long table. The room was huge. Decorated with gold-spun drapery and massive oil paintings of my ancestors, it glittered with crystal chandeliers and silverware.

The paintings were of male Hawks only. The women of my family tree were designated to another room. Still celebrated, but not nearly as important.

Each artwork showed a man of distinguished wealth and intolerable power. I’d studied them in great length this past month, preparing for Nila’s arrival. My favourite was Samuel Hawk. The third man to extract a debt.

I looked just like him.

Snapping his fingers, my father called the small murmurs of masculine voices to attention. Pointing at Nila trembling beside me, he said, “Brothers, this woman will be our guest for the foreseeable future and in honour of her company, we have something special planned.”

The men grinned, reclining in their chairs, ready for the show to begin. The hiss and crackle of the log fire added a cheery background noise as well as welcome heat to the cavernous room.

Nodding at me, he said, “Jet, if you would be so kind as to make sure our guest is appropriately attired.”

Pleasure.

This might be tradition but it was also payback for what she’d made me become earlier today. This was sweet retribution.

Dropping Nila's hand, I moved toward the large side table that held crockery, wine glasses, and decanters. The food that’d been prepared by the full kitchen in the other wing of the house waited on the matching sideboard across the room. There were countless dishes, at least seven courses, but no wait staff to present it.

I smiled.

That was where Ms. Weaver came in. Along with…other duties.

Gathering the items that were meant for Nila, I returned to her side. She hadn’t moved but not from obedience. Two large men in leather cuts blocked her way out. The moment I came back, she looked pleadingly into my eyes.

“I can’t—Jethro don’t make me.” She swallowed. “Not so many. I can’t do—”

Snatching her arm, I spun her to the corner of the room, away from hungry onlookers. “You dare say no? Do you want this to be over?”

She nodded rapidly. “Yes. More than anything yes.”

“Fine. It’s over. But you’re sentenced to watch your father and brother be slaughtered, along with the decimation of your family’s business and assets. It will be obliterated. Gone. Is that what you’re willing to pay?”

She squeezed her eyes in horror.

Didn’t fucking think so.

I never wanted to be that weak. That driven by compassion. I obeyed my family. I accepted my position. But I would never let love dictate my actions.

That wasn’t what a Hawk did.

We were untouchable.

Taking the liberty of her lack of vision, I placed the first item on her head. A sexy, frilly maid’s cap. It perched on her head, gracing her damp black hair like a sad crown.

Her head dipped, shielding her eyes. Her body convulsed, trying hard to maintain the blankness she thought would be her salvation.

Tugging her hands, I muttered, “Let go of the towel.”

She cowered away.

Growling under my breath, I wrapped an arm around her waist, holding her firm. “Don’t make me ask again. You’re not new to this game. Let go of the towel.”

Her eyes flew wide, fighting my hold. “No!”

Goddammit, she tested me. A headache brewed behind my eyes. I sighed. “Make me ask you one more time. Go on…”

She froze, breathing hard. A battle broke out between us. I should never have let her get away with what she pulled at the stables. She thought I’d softened. She thought I’d be lenient. If anything, she’d proven my errors and I’d go above and beyond to ensure I didn’t falter again.

Ever.

She had to learn that the day granted hope and happiness, but I stole it. She had to face that the night hid evil and darkness, but my soul was blacker.

There would be no winning. None.

We didn’t speak, but our eyes shouted, wrapping us tight with unsaid tension.

Finally, she lowered her chin in defeat. Her death grip on the fluffy material loosened, allowing it to flutter to the floor.

Ordinarily, I would’ve rewarded her. A kind word. A gentle gesture. But that was before I learned I couldn’t give her any softness. She needed a firm, masterful hand. Otherwise, she’d make my life a living hell until I stole hers.

My eyes latched onto her naked body.

I paused.

Fuck.

Nila Weaver was like the needle she used to make her livelihood. Long, sculptured. Muscle tone so defined, her hips defied her supple skin, almost piercing her. Her breasts were small but high with perfect dark nipples.

My gaze dropped between her legs. The part of her I’d intimately explored already. I expected an inexperienced girl to not maintain her pussy, but there was only a strip of black hair, hiding and teasing at the same time.

My heartbeat thickened.

And then I noticed the bruises.

Everywhere. On her ribcage, hips, thighs, and arms.

Prodding an unforgiving finger into a particularly large purple one, I muttered, “Who did this?”

She crossed her knees, clamping a hand over her breasts.

I swallowed hard, hating that my cock twitched.

Her mouth parted, then understanding flared. “Not who. What.” Looking down at herself, she whispered, “The perils of vertigo.”

I had no reply to that. She already had a condition that hurt her. I should be easy to bear.

“Put your arm down.” I slapped it away from her breasts. She stiffened but left it by her side, standing taller than before.

Holding out the tiny excuse of an apron, I placed it over her head. It was black with white lacy trim, low enough to show the tops of her breasts and nipples, short enough to show the trimmed delight between her legs.

Spinning her around, I tied the strings at her neck and lower spine. When she faced me again, she choked, “Why?”

“Why?” I raised an eyebrow.

She nodded. “Is this all a game to you?”

I smiled. “No game. We’re deadly serious. As you should know by now.” Leaving her, I returned to the table and collected the final item. The Weaver heirloom.

Prowling back to her, I held up the collar.

Her eyes popped wide. She gawked at the solid encrusted diamond collar made from our very own imports. Two hundred carats, valued at over three million pounds—it’d been in my family since the first debt had been claimed.

“Do you know what this is?” I whispered, dangling it in front of her face.

She clamped her lips, eyes deathly cold.