I wanted to be perfect for him.

I fully intended to seduce him and force Jethro to admit who he was, what it meant, and to finally accept that I wanted him—faceted flaws and all.

To ensure I looked the best I could, I’d straightened my glossy hair and shaded my eyes with a mixture of blacks and pewters. My lips however were left virginally pink with just a swipe of clear lip balm.

I wanted Jethro to drop to his knees the moment he saw me. I wanted him panting and so rock-hard, he forgot to be gentle and slammed me against the wall in his rush to take.

I was already wet imagining everything we’d do.

The maid had disappeared, leaving me free to strut around naked if I wished. Instead, I clutched a towel around me and made my way to the imposing carved wardrobe. Swinging open the doors, I inspected my choices.

I’d made a few dresses while here, but nothing screamed first date with the man I would spend the rest of my life with.

However long that might be.

A tentative knock came.

“Come in.” I tightened my knotted towel, deciding on a fuchsia pink wraparound dress that would set off my tanned skin.

“Ah, Miss. You don’t need to choose. Your outfit has been arranged.”

I spun around. Jethro picked out a dress for me?

I tripped a little bit more in love. “Really?”

Keeping her eyes downcast, the maid came toward me holding a large zipped clothing bag. “This is the chosen outfit.”

My heart did an excited two-step, dying to see what Jethro had chosen. It was romantic. Sweet, in a way. And also telling of his preferences—a glimpse into his inner desires. I shadowed her as she placed the garment on my bed and unzipped it.

“Once dressed, your presence is required in the gaming hall.”

I can’t see.

I moved around her, eagerness making me rude. She hadn’t pushed aside the bag, still hiding the contents. I reached to move it, but she said, “Did you hear me? You’re to go to the gaming hall.”

My heartbeat switched to a sombre thud-thud. Jethro wanted our first date on Hawksridge land? Surely, there were more enjoyable places than a stuffy cigar-fumigated den?

“Did he say why?”

She shook her head. “No, sorry.”

And why would he? Jethro was kind and gentle beneath layers of complexities, but he was still a rich, powerful man, and she was but a lowly servant. Such things wouldn’t be shared.

“You’re running out of time. I was told to help you dress.” Frowning a little, she pushed aside the bag and withdrew a simple cheesecloth shirt and…breaches.

The sombre thud-thud turned to a more panicky drum. My eyes swooped up to hers. “He said I had to wear this?”

Is Jethro into weird kink that completely escaped my notice? Whenever we slept together, I got a feeling that missionary and the more conventional methods weren’t entirely his taste. He held something back—but this?

What on earth is erotic about breaches?

She shook her head. “Nothing, ma’am. All I know is I’m supposed to help you dress and get you there within the hour.” She reached for my towel.

I backpedalled. “No…that won’t be necessary. I can dress myself.”

Please…

A silent beg began in my soul, gathering volume with every breath.

Please…

The beg became a prayer, tiptoeing through awful conclusions.

Please don’t let this be what I think it is…

The maid nodded. “Okay. I’ll just wait outside.” She headed for the door, but turned around. “Oh, I almost forgot. There were two instructions. No bra or knickers and tie your hair up.”

Oh, my God.

My heart slammed to a stop.

Please. Please, don’t let this be...

My beg was no longer a scared prayer but a raucous in every limb.

“Why?” I choked, suffocating on knowledge.

The maid shrugged. “Again, Miss. I wasn’t told. But they do expect your presence quickly so…” She nodded at the items. “Best to hurry.”

She stepped from the room, shutting the door behind her.

They.

Not him.

They.

The pain came from nowhere. A crippling ripping tearing deep inside. It felt as if my body tried to evict my soul—every cell shredding with agony. A silent scream billowed, succumbing to the horrific knowledge, battering me with violence—almost as if I could commit suicide just from fear.

Run, Nila.

Climb out the window and run.

I folded in half, clutching my heaving midriff.

Vertigo swooped like bats of hell, flapping in my hair and screeching in my ears. I toppled to my knees, not stopping my cantilevered descent until my forehead touched the carpet. I stayed that way—with my arms locked around me in a useless embrace and my head at the foot of some deity who refused to save me.

It might not be what you think.

It might not be the Third Debt.

A sob crawled up my throat.

Lying to another was doable. Lying to myself was impossible.

Trembling, I sat up and grabbed the clothes from the bed. They slid from the sheets, scattering on the floor. The material was scratchy, rudimentary.

The urge to bolt grew ever more incessant.

Don’t let them do this.

I vaguely knew where the boundary was now. I could make it. I had a beast with four legs ready to carry me away. But even if I made it to the stables and to Moth—even if I made it to the boundary and galloped all my way to London—no one would believe my tale. Not after the press. The interview. Not after the online websites and gossip columns placing wagers on when our big day would be and how the world had been used in an elaborate hoax between family rivalry and an overprotective brother.

Cut had cleverly strengthened my bars to a worldwide level—locked in by hearsay and propaganda.

Swallowing the sickness from vertigo, I slowly stood. The room still spun. The nausea still battered. But I had no options. Deliver myself willingly and pray I was strong enough to get through it. Or wait for them to claim me and administer a worse punishment.

Tears clawed my lungs as I dropped the towel.

An ant’s nest of hatred and helplessness crawled over my skin as I picked up the breaches.

A shudder hijacked my muscles as I pulled the abrasive wool over my feet and up to my hips. Instantly, I itched—rasping claustrophobia within the primitive trousers.

Keep going.

Gritting my teeth, I slipped into the cheesecloth shirt, cursing the see-through fabric and my dark nipples. I might as well be wearing nothing.

I can’t go out like this.

The maid suddenly appeared without knocking. Her eyes cast over me. “Great, you’re almost ready.” Pulling a hair tie from around her wrist, she gave it to me. “You need to tie up your hair, too. They said in a bun.”

I couldn’t speak.

It took all my power to keep from murdering her and bolting.

Taking the elastic, I gathered my straightened hair and twisted it into a rope before twirling it up on top of my skull and fastening it in place.

“You ready to go?”

Ignoring the maid, I padded over to the full-length mirror, hating the fact my chest was in full view beneath the cheesecloth.

My reflection.

A wild moan keened. I slapped my hands over my mouth.

I look…

I look…

My heart decided it would no longer beat. No longer strum to keep me alive. It turned into coal—no longer flesh or blood or diamond—just dirty, dusty coal splintering into kindling.

All my fears had come true.

I was about to pay the Third Debt.

And I knew who I was paying it for.

The Hawk ancestors had a family. I’d already paid for the husband’s trial for stealing by whipping. I’d paid for the sins of Mrs. Weaver by drowning the Hawk daughter for witchcraft. And now I was to pay whatever curse befell the Hawk son.

The little boy who worked so hard only to be rewarded with starvation.

I knew that with utmost certainty.

My reflection told the terrifying truth.

Dressed in breaches and a basic shirt with my hair scraped back, I no longer looked like a woman who wanted to seduce Jethro Hawk.

But a little boy about to be ruined for life.

The maid led me down the corridor, through countless living rooms and dayrooms, before stopping on the threshold of a smoke-hazed billiards den.

She didn’t say a word, just nodded at the open door. Pirouetting, she left me standing with my arm over my chest, trying to hide my freezing nipples. I couldn’t stop shaking. Couldn’t stop fearing.

“God’s sake, come in, Nila.” Cut snapped his fingers, never glancing away from the cards in his hands. The Hawk men sat around a low poker table in leather-studded chairs. The snooker table with its apple green velvet and low hanging Tiffany chandeliers was utterly ignored in favour of gambling.

Unwillingly, I stepped from corridor to room.

“Shut the door; there’s a good girl.” Cut glanced up, puffing on a cigar dangling from the corner of his mouth. He looked me up and down, his eyes lingering on my hidden chest. “Well…can’t say you look very attractive. Drop your arm; at least let us see some tits, so we know you aren’t truly a fucking peasant boy.”