Pulling his body heat away, he shoved his hands through his hair and paced the room. “Time for your history lesson.”

I wriggled against the pole, dreadfully uncomfortable and vibrating with anger and desire.

I hated the wetness between my legs. I hated that whenever he touched me, I would rather kiss then kill him, rather than flat-out destroy him.

My body was hot and confused. Desperate for freedom. Ravenous for lust.

“In 1460, the Hawks were nobodies. We had no land, no titles, no money of any kind. We were the lowest of the low and survived on the generosity of others. Luckily, after years of begging and living on the streets, my ancestor and his family managed to find employment in a household who were the opposite of everything they were.

“At the beginning, it seemed like luck had finally shone upon them, and their days of thievery and struggles were at an end. What they didn’t know was it marked the end of their freedom, and, ultimately, their lives. They became slaves—available at the Weavers’ every beck and call for every frivolous demand. Not only did my ancestor work for the family, but his wife became their kitchen maid, his son their stable boy, and his daughter their scullery underling. A family of Hawks working for a family of Weavers.”

Jethro’s voice was hypnotic, whisking me away from the greenhouse to a time where sewage flowed in busy streets and rat meat was as common as chicken in the slums of London.

Jethro never stopped his tale. “They worked every hour—cooking, cleaning, fetching—ensuring the Weavers lived a life of well-tended luxury. Nothing was too much for them—they were the cogs that made the household run.”

“So they were employees,” I butted in. “They were hired to look after my forefathers and no doubt given room and board as well as food and clothing.”

Jethro stalked toward me. Fisting my hair, he snarled, “You’d think that, wouldn’t you? A fair trade for the amount of hours they slaved. But no. The Weavers didn’t believe in fairness of employment. They didn’t pay a cent—not to those who came from the gutter. But you’re right—they did provide board and lodging, but they taxed it so heavily, my family existed in the Weavers’ cellar with scraps from their table. Every year their unpayable taxes grew higher.”

Sickness swirled in my stomach. “How do you mean?”

Jethro let me go, continuing his stroll around the room. “I mean that every year they were worse off, not only working but paying their employers for the chance. Every year at Christmas, they were ordered to pay back their taxes of being privileged enough to live in the graces of the Weavers, and every year they couldn’t pay it back.”

That’s awful.

My heart hurt for such unfairness, of such unnecessary brutality. It can’t be true. No one could be that horrid. Then again, it happened so long ago. It was still insanity to make me pay for it.

I gritted my teeth, fortifying myself against Jethro’s brainwashing. I couldn’t believe my forefathers were tyrannical employers. There would’ve been rules—even then. Surely?

It’s sad, but it’s also hundreds and hundreds of years ago. Get over it.

I said with half-hearted conviction, “They could’ve left and found other work. They didn’t have to put up with that treatment, even if it was true.”

Jethro laughed coldly. “Seems so simple to you, doesn’t it, Ms. Weaver? Inhumane treatment, so leave.” He glowered. “Not so easy when your ancestor was raping my ancestor’s wife every night, and the mistress of the house had turned every law enforcer in the county against them. She spun such an elegant tale of espionage and thievery; no one would listen to the truth. Everyone believed the Hawks were cold-hearted criminals who were unappreciative of the generosity of the upstanding Weavers.”

Jethro crossed his arms. “Can you believe the Weavers even managed to coerce the police to issue a standing warrant, stating if ever a Hawk stopped working for the Weavers, they would be punished? The law said they’d be thrown into the keep and tortured for their crimes, then murdered as an example to other misbehaving working class.”

My stomach twisted into knots. I wished my hands were untied so I could clamp them over my ears and not listen to Jethro's lies.

This was sick. Terrible. Woefully unjust.

Jethro moved closer, no sound, just like his beloved silence. “Needless to say, they were very unhappy. The wife tried to commit suicide, only for her daughter to find her and the Weavers’ best physician to bring her back from the dead. She couldn’t escape the nightly exploits of the man of the house, and day by day, her children starved from lack of proper care and nutrition.

“So, one day Frank Hawk waited until the Weaver bastard had raped his wife for the second time that night and put her to bed with her ailing offspring. He waited until the house was quiet and everyone rested, before sneaking from the cellar and into the kitchens.”

The image Jethro painted drove needles deep and painful into my heart. I couldn’t think of such horrible people or such a sorry existence. How could my ancestors have done such a thing?

“He should’ve snuck up the stairs and slaughtered his employer while he slept, but his inner fire had been well and truly beaten out after years of abuse. He had no other drive but to stay alive in the hope redemption would save him.

“That night, he only took enough to keep them alive, because no matter their rancid living conditions, he wasn’t ready to die. He wasn’t ready to permit his children to fade away. He was ready to find his self-worth again and fight. To find the rage to commit murder. And to do that, he needed strength.

“Tiptoeing back to the basement, he and his family had their first good meal in years. Scotch eggs, crusty bread, and anything else he managed to pillage.” Jethro smiled, before continuing, “Of course, their meal didn’t go unnoticed.”

I gulped, completely wrapped up in his tale.

“The next day, the cook announced someone had been in her kitchen and stole. Mr. Weaver immediately turfed my family from their beds, finding evidence of misdeeds in the way of crumbs and hastily devoured food. He announced a crime had been committed; therefore, punishment must be paid.

“He dragged Frank Hawk to the village square where he strung him up on the whipping post and left him to hang by his wrists for a day and a night in the dead of winter.” Jethro’s hands suddenly clasped mine, straining above me to thread his fingers through my digits—his touch cold and threatening.

I shivered, biting my cheek.

His lips brushed against my ear as his cock twitched against my lower back. “Do you know what they did to thieves back in the 1400s, Ms. Weaver?”

I closed my eyes, bile scalding my throat.

Yes, I knew. The methods of law enforcement were a hot subject at school. The Tower of London had extreme inventions for dishing out pain to those who didn’t deserve it.

“Yes,” I breathed.

Jethro tugged my fingers. “Care to share?”

Swallowing, I whispered, “The usual punishment for stealing was hands being cut off, ears nailed to spikes, flogging…all manner of beastly things.”

My fingers ached beneath his as he squeezed hard.

Then he stepped back, letting me go. “Can you empathize with my ancestor? Can you tap into the panic he must’ve felt to lose a hand or other body part?”

I squeezed my eyes, nodding. It would’ve been awful and even worse for the wife as she stood by and watched the love of her life—the same man who had no power to protect her—accept punishment, all for just keeping her alive. A life she probably didn’t even want with rape and destitution as the highlights.

Jethro said, “This is the easiest debt to endure, Ms. Weaver. But back then, it was one of the worst.” Moving behind me again, his fingers fumbled at the hem of my t-shirt. Pulling it from my skin, he tore it in half with one vicious tug. The crack of the material ripping echoed in the octagonal space.

I jerked as humid air kissed my naked spine.

A moan escaped my lips as I finally understood what he would do.

I wanted to beg for mercy. For him to stop this ridiculous ancient tally and let bygones be bygones, but no sound came as he shoved my tattered t-shirt to my shoulders, exposing my back. His fingers were firm and unyielding as he reached in front and undid the button on my shorts.

“Please,” I moaned as he undid them and shoved them to my ankles.

Jethro didn’t reply, nor did he ask me to kick the discarded shorts away. I let them stay—imprisoning my ankles, just like the cuffs imprisoned my wrists.

Leaving me naked and quivering with fear, Jethro disappeared.

I didn’t try to follow him with my eyes. I kept them squeezed tight, shivering and trembling, wishing I was anywhere but here.

Jethro tapped me on the shoulder a few moments later, his touch harsh and demanding. “Open your eyes.”

I reluctantly obeyed, focusing on his flawless face and cold, unforgiving gaze.

He dangled a flogger in front of my vision. It held a multitude of leather strips with knots in regular intervals down the strands. “Have you seen one of these?”

I nodded.

I was a designer. I garnered inspiration from everything and anything, including different lifestyle choices, eras, and kinks. However, there was nothing sexually playful about this one. It was mean and meant to hurt.

I balled my hands, cursing the pins and needles in my fingertips as blood rushed faster. “Yes.”

“And do you think it was a just punishment for stealing something, all to keep his family alive?”

I shook my head. “No.”

Jethro agreed, “No. Especially in the dead of winter where his body was frozen and brittle, and the slightest touch would’ve been agony.” He ran his finger down my shoulder blades. “You’re warm, in a humid room. Your skin is supple and flushed. Pain won’t register as badly as if I’d placed you inside a freezer or dumped you in ice water before we started.”

He dropped his voice. “Want to know another secret, Ms. Weaver? Want to know something that could potentially get me into a lot of trouble?”

My eyes flared. The way he asked…he was serious. I twisted, trying to catch his eye, but he remained just out of looking distance. “What?” I breathed.

Jethro pressed his body against mine again, digging his belt buckle painfully into my lower back, sandwiching my naked skin harder against the post. “I was supposed to do that. Supposed to make you so cold, I could snap your arm with one touch. You were supposed to be numb and chattering with chill so that every lash would make you scream in endless agony.”

I swallowed hard, fear lacing my blood. “Why—why didn’t you?” Even my heart stopped beating in fear of missing his answer. I needed to find a way to understand this man, before it was too late.

He dropped his voice to barely a whisper, “Because no one should have to be as cold as I’ve been taught.” He suddenly stepped back, letting the flogger hang down in his grip.

He snapped, “I suggest you hug the post, Ms. Weaver. This is going to hurt.”

NILA IMMEDIATELY DID as I said.

With no hesitation, she pressed her body harder against the post, doing her best to hold on despite the restricting cuffs.

Every muscle in her back stood out: every ridge and valley from her trim arse to her taut shoulders. Bruises from vertigo stained the flawless white. Scratches from trees and nature marred her with violence. Every rib stood out as she stopped breathing and locked her knees.

I couldn’t have her passing out from lack of oxygen. She had to stay with me. We were in this together.

Gathering the knotted torture device, I murmured, “Do you repent? Do you take ownership of your family’s sins and agree to pay the debt?”

Nila pressed even harder against the post, as if she could morph into the wood and disappear.

When she didn’t reply, I coaxed, “I asked you a question, Ms. Weaver.” Running the flogger through my hands, I stepped closer. “Do you?”

She sucked in a breath, her ribcage straining against her blemished skin. “Ye—yes.” Her head bowed, and her lips went white.

I nodded. It was on record. I’d asked and she’d agreed—that was all I needed.

Taking my place for deliverance, I murmured, “I want you to count.”

Her eyes shot wide, her cheek squished against the bark of the post. “Count?”

I smiled. “I want to hear you acknowledge every lash.”

With my heart in my chest, I spread my thighs and jerked my arm back. I told her the truth about disobeying the order to lock her in the chiller. If my father found out, I could be in serious shit.

We both could.

I hadn’t found the balls to delve into the reasons why I hadn’t obeyed the procedure. All I could focus on was delivering the First Debt. Then I could get out of here. Then I could get some peace.

“Don’t stop counting,” I grunted. My arm sailed forward, sending the four-stranded flogger whistling through the air.

For a split second, I suffered an out-of-body experience. I saw myself. I witnessed the anger and power on my face. I watched as if I wasn’t the one wielding pain but an outsider. And I wondered what it would be like to belong to a different family. To have a different upbringing.

But then the experience stopped, slamming me back into my body.

The flogger sliced through the thick silence.

Nila screamed.

I jolted.

Raw redness bloomed as the lash licked across flesh.

Her skin was so delicate; blood welled instantly.

I stumbled at the sight. My heart shot from my chest and lay beating and mangled on the floor. Images of hunting and killing flurried in my mind. Drawing blood was not new to me. But drawing it from a woman I’d developed feelings for was.