It tasted unbelievably good. Roast chicken, crisp salad, and creamy mayo on fresh white bread. I wanted another. Hell, I wanted ten.

“Here.” Something landed by my feet. I ducked to pick it up, throwing a look over my shoulder. Jethro had stood and buckled his trousers. He ran a hand through his silvery hair, watching me with a livid expression.

I looked at the green apple in my hand then inhaled that, too. I didn’t care what I looked like. My body demanded I eat. I obliged as fast as humanly possible.

But no matter what I chewed, all I could taste was Jethro.

The apple core was the only thing left of my piranha-speed eating. It was gone too quickly and still I was starving.

Jethro prowled toward me.

My muscles moved, retreating from the anger wisping off him.

Don’t move away. It’s a weakness.

Stand up to him. Make him see you.

Tensing my muscles, I locked my knees. I’d won. If I backed down now, everything I had done would be for nothing.

Here and now—with no other Hawks or Weavers—it was just us; us in this game where the rules were unknown. The only way to win was to maintain the ground I’d gained.

If he wanted to control me with violence and softly spoken curses, fine. Then I would control him with sex.

The one thing I knew nothing about, but seemed to have a great aptitude for.

My lips twisted at the irony. I’d gone from untouched designer to depraved prisoner.

I only did it to prove a point—to extend my life by however long possible.

Liar. You’re wet.

You enjoyed giving as much as you enjoyed his tongue between your legs.

I gritted my teeth.

Jethro didn’t say a word, just stood there seething.

My body itched with need; I couldn’t stop thinking of his mouth on my pussy or the exquisite sensation of exploding into pieces.

I wanted to come again. And soon.

Finally, he clicked his fingers. “Come. We’re leaving.”

Ducking, he scooped up the blanket and bag, before stalking to me and grabbing my wrist. He whistled for Squirrel to come galloping from the undergrowth and dragged me through the now almost pitch-black forest.

At least I had shoes, so twigs were no longer a painful foe. The food I’d eaten sat in my stomach like a gift, spreading its energy, while the clothing granted me warmth.

My eyes widened.

I’m…content.

Somehow, amongst the stress and fears, I’d found a small slither of serenity. How long it would last, I didn’t know, but even Jethro couldn’t take it from me.

We didn’t walk far. My ears understood where we were going before my eyes did. The gentle snuffles of dogs drifted between the branches, followed by a soft huff of a horse.

Stepping into a small clearing, Jethro let me go, moving toward the huge black beast.

He murmured to the animal while securing the saddlebag to the pommel. His large hands were white flashes in the moon-starved night.

I stood silently as Jethro untied the foxhounds, patting them in greeting. The dogs couldn’t contain their wriggling behinds, excitement sparking between them.

Squirrel joined his comrades, but he was never far from my side; his intelligent eyes always on mine no matter when I looked at him.

Jethro grabbed the reins of his horse, bringing the animal closer. He stopped in front of me. His body had shut down, face impassive. His chilly façade was back in place as if we were total strangers who happened to meet in the forest on some mystical night.

I’ve tasted you.

You’ve tasted me.

We weren’t strangers anymore.

“Get on. I don’t want you falling over.”

I stepped back. “I’ve survived running through the woodland, climbing trees, and bringing you to an orgasm. I think I can manage walking back to Hawksridge.”

“Don’t, Ms. Weaver. Just don’t.” He ran a hand over his face, his mask slipping just a little, showing the strain around his eyes.

My heart clenched in joy. I was happy to see him tired. I was happy to see such an egotistical arsehole suffer from dealing with the girl who everyone thought was weak.

His gaze found mine. Something passed between us. This wasn’t a challenge or threat. This was…softer.

“Get on the horse,” Jethro ordered, but the unspoken word dangled behind his angry sentence.

Please.

I moved forward, eyeing up the giant beast. The horse swung its head to inspect me, its huge nostrils inhaling my scent.

Do I smell of your master?

Even though I’d eaten a sandwich and apple, Jethro’s heady flavour still laced my tongue, saturating me with his essence.

In some horrible way, I felt as if I’d consumed a part of him—giving him power over me.

That’s not possible. He didn’t give you that willingly.

I’d taken pleasure from him. I’d forced him to give into me, even though his intention all along was to make me repay.

I couldn’t stop my small smile this time.

Jethro muttered, “Smugness is not becoming on you, Ms. Weaver.”

I shot back, “No, but vulnerability is such a fetching result on you, Mr. Hawk.”

His eyes narrowed. In a whiplash, he grabbed my waist and hurled me up over his head. “Get on the fucking horse, before I lose my temper.”

Not being given a choice, I grabbed the pommel and swung my leg over the saddle. The horse was a solid mass between my legs, the polished smoothness of the saddle sticking to my bare knees.

Jethro grabbed the reins, placed his foot in the stirrup, and swung up behind me. His hard body wedged against mine.

There wasn’t enough room for both of us, but that didn’t seem to matter. Digging his heels into the poor creature, we shot forward as his right arm lassoed around my waist, pressing me tight against his chest.

The night silence became awash with dogs and thundering hooves as he carted me back toward the torturous existence at Hawksridge Hall.

Morning.

The sun shone through the lead light windows, highlighting the embossed leather walls and maroon brocade of my four-poster bed.

All around me rested stuffed birds. Swans and swallows. Finches and thrushes. I knew Jethro had chosen this room for me because of the beautiful creatures all shot, murdered, and stuffed by fellow man. I knew because he’d told me.

He also told me I slept in the bed my mother had and her ancestors before her. All carefully designed to tear away my strength and send me hurtling back to the woman I’d been when we first met.

Pity for him, I had no intention of ever being that woman again.

It was early. The sunshine was still new and tentatively shooing away the night. I’d slept—deep and dreamless and awoken full of energy. A night alone. A night warm and unmolested.

There was something to be said for finding solace in one’s company.

Shoving back the covers, I dashed to my suitcase that rested in the corner of the room. The bellhops of the Black Diamonds had been kind enough to deliver my belongings, including the maxi dress and jacket Jethro had confiscated from me in favour of the ridiculous maid’s uniform I wore to serve the brotherhood’s lunch.

I shivered, shoving away the memory of men and tongues.

Falling to my knees, I searched in the jacket pocket until my fingers found what I was after.

My phone.

I quickly located my charger in my suitcase and took both back to bed. Plugging the charger in, I allowed the wonder of electricity to grant new life to the dead machine.

As I waited for the phone to reboot, I smiled at the minor accomplishment I’d achieved last night.

The moment we’d arrived back at Hawksridge, Jethro had marched me to my room and thrown me inside.

Not a single word or lingering look.

The lock clicked into place, and he left me to shower in peace—to dress in a comfortable, baggy t-shirt and curl up beneath fine Egyptian cotton.

The time alone, coupled with the knowledge I’d stolen something from him in the forest, allowed me to relax for a few welcome hours.

Holding my phone—the link to the outside world—filled me with yet more strength. It was the key to finding a balance in this strange existence. My past wasn’t gone, just hidden.

The moment the connection synced, the device went bonkers in my hands.

Messages flew into my inbox. Missed calls. Emails.

The emails I ignored: my assistant and designers. Requests for more patterns. Deposits from successful bidders on the collection from Milan.

None of that mattered—not anymore. The freedom I felt at ignoring the pressure of my career shouldn’t please me so much.

Three messages from my father glowed on the screen.

My heart lurched, but I neglected them. I wasn’t ready to deal with him. The mixture of despair and betrayal had yet to be unbraided and understood. For now, I needed some space.

I clicked on the latest message, sent early last night.

VtheMan: Nila. Fucking call me.

Vaughn’s message reeked of desperation.

My heart hurt to think of him missing me. I couldn’t stomach his loneliness or confusion. I shouldn’t have rejected him. It was unfair, and I couldn’t do it anymore.

Jethro could jump off a bridge, telling me not to contact my twin and best friend. V needed me.

Needle&Thread: V, I’m fine. I’m so sorry I made you worry. I don’t know how much Dad has told you, but I’m alive and doing everything I can to come home. Please know that I love you, and I wouldn’t have gone if I didn’t have reason to.

I pressed send.

A reason like trying to keep you alive.

The melancholy from thinking about my brother threatened to sink my newfound hope. Quickly, I opened the messages I’d been eager to read since my battery died.

Kite007: Had a pretty fantastic daydream about you, Needle. You let me tie you up and spank the living daylights out of you. Tell me…does that make you wet, ‘cause it sure as fuck makes me hard.

The familiar tug in my core was happiness on this bleak day. So much had changed but not this. Not him.

Careful, Nila.

I paused, tracing the keys with worry. Kite was the one constant in this mess. The only one not involved in some way or another. He wasn’t a Hawk. He wasn’t a Weaver. He was neutral territory where I wanted to camp and never leave.

You think he’s not a Hawk.

The sudden thought stopped me, sucking up my oxygen with terror.

What?

My mind skipped back to the luncheon. To the strange connection I’d shared with the brother whose golden eyes weren’t cold or full of malice but playful. My heart raced, recalling the inexplicable kinship we’d shared—no matter how brief.

He looked at me as if he knew me.

Kestrel.

I dropped the phone.

Could it be?

Shaking, I picked up the device and typed a response.

Needle&Thread: I had a similar daydream. You spanked me in the woods with a whip. You kneeled behind me and struck just enough to burn but not bite. I’d never been hit before, but you…you made it seem all right.

Send.

Only, it wasn’t a daydream, and it was with my mortal enemy.

I settled back into the covers, breathing shallowly. I flip-flopped with fear, hope, and anger. If Kite was Kestrel, what did that mean? Why had he been so cruel to me yet considerate in the dining room? Why had he messaged me a month ago?

The text.

It was never a wrong number.

My hands fisted around my phone. Could I have been manipulated?

Angry tears shot up my spine. All my life, everyone I’d ever known had manipulated me behind the scenes, moving me around at their whim, tugging my skirts until I stood in the right place, while I smiled stupidly and so damn naïve.

I wanted to scream.

You’re making something out of nothing.

It could very well be a wrong number and nothing sinister at all.

My anger was too hot—I couldn’t reason with myself.

Kite007: Fuck, that sounds hot. Did you come?

I stared at the message with fire burning in my soul. I wanted to confront him. I needed to know the truth.

Needle&Thread: Did you come after you licked me yesterday? Did you jerk off to the thought of me being tormented by your family, you sick bastard?

My finger hovered on the send key, my breathing harsh in the silent room.

If I asked and I was right—what then? Where did that leave me? Was it better to play them at their own rules? Hide my tentative conclusion and finally learn how to play this secretive, devious game?

I deleted the message.

Needle&Thread: No, but I made you come. You shot your release so deep down my throat, I can still taste you.

I grinned, feeling a little psychotic.

If Kite was an innocent party in all of this, then he could continue to be my escape. Meanwhile, Jethro would give me answers that I hadn’t had before. Such as granting me knowledge to Kite’s previous question. What do I taste like?

If he tasted anything like Jethro, it was an overpowering mix of no taste at all and too much taste all at once. An oyster mixed with caviar infused with the strongest shot of vodka. Not entirely pleasant, but not disgusting either.

I had experience now. Experience garnered by blowing a man who may or may not be related to my tormentor.

You might have it totally wrong. You’re jumping to conclusions.

I paused, fingers stroking the screen. It was entirely possible I was clutching at straws, looking for connections to make sense of this catastrophe. But I couldn’t ignore the tug inside—the sixth sense burning stronger with every second.

My lips twisted at how disgusting all of this was. How the unsaid lies made me endlessly suspicious.

Kite007: Fuck, do you hear yourself? Something’s changed. Again. I can’t believe I’m asking this, but spill. I need to know how you’ve gone from shy little nun to confident tease.