Captured Boxed Set: 9 Alpha Bad-Boys Who Will Capture Your Heart (78 page)

But on top of it all rested strewn
photographs.

Photo-shopped images that never
happened.

Doctored snap-shots of lies. Such
horrible, horrible lies.

No one will come.

Jethro was right. The police would
laugh if anyone asked for their help. What I held cemented my new life being
Jethro’s plaything.

Shuffling through the deck, I
couldn’t stop a hot tear searing down my cheek.

There was me—smiling, glowing. I
remembered the day. V and I had headed to Paris for a local mid-season show a
few years ago. He’d beaten me at poker in a silly pub tournament and a patron
snapped an image of us. Laughing, overly warm, arms wrapped around each other
in sibling affection, we’d been so happy.

Only Vaughn didn’t exist in this
photo. The background had been amended to show a fancy restaurant while the man
who clutched me was Jethro.

The smile on his face was the
warmest I’d seen. His attire of open-neck black shirt and jeans made him look
young, in love, and dashing.

I couldn’t study it anymore.
Flicking to another one, I slapped a hand over my mouth.

This one pictured my father and me.
Or
had
. He’d splashed out for the annual staff retreat, and we’d gone on
a one week cruise around the Mediterranean. We’d stood with the setting sun
dancing on the orange tinted waves, dressed in loose fitting ‘cruise wear’ that
I’d created only days before. I’d planted an adoring daughterly kiss on his
scratchy face.

That kiss now belonged to Jethro.

The ship had been tweaked to show a
luxury yacht rather than commercial liner. The sunset cast a different glow.
Jethro stood broodily, staring into the camera with such an intense glare of
sexual power, no one would disagree that there was chemistry and need between
us. The way my body curved into his, the sweetness and trust I displayed, only
helped confirm the illusion of a couple besotted with each other.

The photos wobbled in my hands;
another tear stained the glossy deception.

I looked up, not caring my heart
was ripped out and beating coldly on the car park floor. "How—"
Gritting my teeth, I tried again. "Destroying my dress wasn’t enough? You
had to steal my past, too?" I held up a photograph of a half-naked Jethro
holding my chin as he kissed me. That wasn’t based on my dateless life, but it
was so lifelike, so true, so incontestable.

How did they make it so
realistic?

Jethro shook his head, rolling his
eyes. Locking the bike, he pocketed the keys before turning to face me.
Dropping to his haunches in front, he whispered, "I not only stole your
past. I’ve already stolen your future."

I breathed hard, hating the look of
enjoyment in his gaze.

Never breaking eye contact, he
tapped the photographs in my hands. "You didn’t see them all. Flick to the
back. They’re especially for you."

I couldn’t unglue my lungs. I
didn’t think I’d ever be able to breathe without pain again. Splitting the
tower of pictures, I glanced at the last ones. Immediately, I looked up. All
sense of decency and pride gone.

"Please, you can’t. This—it
will break their hearts."

Tears scalded the back of my
throat. My eyes burned, glancing down again. This one showed my empty hotel
room—exactly as I left it with last minute ribbon and feathers littering the
bed before rushing to the show—but now my toiletries from my nightstand, my
laptop, and belongs were gone. Including my carry on and suitcase.

The room was abandoned. It looked
as if I’d packed up and left my dreams, livelihood, and family without so much
as a backward glance.

This would break my brother and
father’s heart, because it was the exact same way of how my mother, Emma
Weaver, left us.

But unlike my mother, there was a
simple note placed upon the dresser.

"Turn it over. I took the
liberty of asking for a close-up, so you can read what you wrote as your final
goodbye," Jethro murmured, stealing the photo from my fingers and tapping
the fresh one revealed beneath it.

I curled over my knees, cradling
the glossy replica of a goodbye letter penned in my hand. The writing was
exactly like mine, even I couldn’t tell the forged sweeps and cursive from
reality.

It’s
time I came clean.

I’ve
been lying to you for a while now.

I’ve
fallen in love and decided that my life is better with him. I’m done with the
deadlines and unachievable pressure placed on me by this family.

I
know what I’m doing.

Don’t
try and find me.

Nila.

I looked up. My heart collided with
my ribcage, bruising, hurting. So much pain. I couldn’t contain the sorrow when
I thought of V reading this. To be left behind by both his mother and sister.…

"They won’t believe this. They
know me better than anyone. They know I wasn’t in a relationship. You said Tex
knows all about you and why you’re doing this. Please—"

Jethro laughed. "It’s not for
your family, Ms. Weaver. It’s for the press. It’s for the world stage who will
make this fiction a reality. Your brother will find out the truth from your
father, I’m sure. And if they behave, they’ll both remain untouched. Believe
me, this isn’t to hurt them—if I wanted that, I have much better means."
He cupped my cheek, brushing away long strands of my hair. "No. This was
just an insurance policy."

"For what?" I breathed.

"So no one believes your
family when they break and try to find you. They’ll be all alone. Just like
you. Controlled by the Hawks who’ve owned the Weavers for almost six hundred
years."

Six hundred years?

"But…"

Jethro sniffed, his temper building
like a ghost around us. "Stop crying. The images portray the truth. It
proves you did what you did and no one can be angry or distrustful."

"What did I do?"

"Ah, Ms. Weaver, don’t let
shock steal your intelligence. You. Left. Voluntarily." He waved at the
photo. "This confirms it."

"But I didn’t," I
whimpered. "I didn’t leave—"

Jethro tensed. "Don’t forget
so soon what I taught you. You are the
sacrifice
and you…" His eyes
dared me to finish his sentence, to admit to everything I’d done by protecting
my family. His fingers twitched between his legs, looking like he wanted to
strike.

I’d never been good at confrontation—not
that my father yelled often or Vaughn and I argued. I’d grown up with no need
to fight. I knew how precious my family was. My mother left, proving just how
heartless someone could be if they didn’t hold onto love. So I’d held on with
both hands, feet, every part of me. Only to have it torn away so easily.

You’d rather they lived and
never saw them again than die because of you.

Hanging my head, I murmured, "A
sacrifice comes of their own free will, therefore I left voluntarily."

Jethro nodded, patting my thigh
like the pet he thought I was. Covering the photos with his large hand, he
pressed down until my elbows gave out and I lowered them. "Good girl. Keep
behaving and the next part won’t be too hard to bear."

Another rush of tears suffocated
me, but I swallowed them back. He’d told me to stop crying. So I would.

Jethro stood, reaching down to
scoop up the awful photos and duffel bag of belongings. "Come. We have to
go." He didn’t offer me his hand to climb to my feet.

The simple act of raising myself
from cold concrete to freezing air taxed my already fractured world. Rolling
vertigo pitched my balance, sending me reeling backward. My arms shot out,
searching for something to grab hold of.

With drunken eyes, I begged Jethro
to catch me, but he just stood there. Silent. Exasperated. He let me trip and
fall.

I cried out as I collapsed on the
ground. My fingernails dug into the rough flooring, holding on while the
parking garage danced around like a nightmarish carrousel. Pain radiated from
my hipbone, but it was nothing compared to the overwhelming nausea.

Stress.

It wouldn’t be Jethro who ended up
killing me, but the inability to deal with a gauntlet of emotions.

Closing my eyes, I repeated
Vaughn’s silly nursery rhyme.
Find an anchor. Hold on tight. Do this and
you’ll be alright.

"Get up, goddammit. Stop
acting the victim." A pinching hand grabbed under my arm, jerking me to my
feet.

I doubled over, holding my stomach
as another wave of sickness threatened to evict the only food I’d had today—a
luncheon prior to the rehearsal of the runway show.

"You’re useless."

When the debilitating wave left, I
glared up. "I’m not useless. I can’t control it." Breathing hard, I
begged, "Please, let me talk to my brother. Let me tell him—"

"Tell him what? That you’re
being taken against your will?" Jethro chuckled. "By the look on your
face you seem to think I’ll forbid you having any outside communication—cut you
off from everything you hold dear." Letting me go, he scooped my heavy
hair from my neck, giving me a reprieve from the sticky heat of not feeling
well. "Contrary to what you think, I have no desire to dictate what you
can and can’t do."

 Twisting my hair, tugging lightly,
he added, "This may surprise you, seeing as you have such a low opinion of
me, but you can go online, keep your mobile—even continue to work if you wish.
I told you before—this is not a kidnapping. It’s a debt. And until you
understand the full complications of the debt, I suggest you keep what’s
happening to yourself."

I couldn’t understand. I was being
stolen, yet was allowed access to avenues that could bring me safety. It didn’t
make sense.

"You’ve made a decision to
come with me, and it’s irreversible. You can’t change your mind, and you can’t
change the payments required, so why make others worry on your behalf?"
His eyes glinted. "I suggest you become good at pretending if you wish to
maintain the pretence of freedom. I won’t stop you from creating extra worry
and strain for yourself." Bowing over me, he smiled. "It only makes
my job easier."

Grabbing the black rope he’d made
from my hair, I stepped away from him. "You’re insane."

He gave me a sideways look,
rummaging in the duffel to grab a handful of clothes. Closing the distance
between us, he shoved the balled items into my stomach.

Oxygen exploded from my lungs from
the force.

Jethro pulsed with anger. "That’s
twice you’ve questioned my mental state, Ms. Weaver. Do. Not. Do. It. Again."
Running a hand through his hair, he growled, "Now get dressed. Time to go
home."

I COULDN’T DO it.

It was like looking after a needy,
sickly, disobedient child. Bryan Hawk, my father and orchestrator of this mess,
assured me it would be a simple matter of a few threats and blackmail.

She’ll come easy if you threaten
the ones she loves.

Bullshit.

The so-called inexperienced
dressmaker had her own agenda. Beneath the chaste little girl, lurked a devious
woman who was so tangled and confused she was fucking dangerous.

Dangerous because she was
unpredictable. Unpredictable because she didn’t know herself.

I was clueless on how to control
her. I didn’t understand her.

For instance, what the fuck
happened at the coffee shop? She’d gravitated toward me. She’d licked my thumb
like she imagined it was my dick. She’d
surprised
me. And I didn’t do
well with surprises.

My structured world—my rules and
agendas—were not something that had room for twists and turns. Unless I was the
one creating them. And I definitely didn’t have time for my cock to twitch and
show an interest in the woman I meant to torture and defile.

I would get hard when she was alone
on my estate and her screams echoed in the woods. I would come with her gagged
and subdued and hating me with the intensity of her forefathers.

Her pain was my reward. The fact
she got me hard by being shy but so bloody tempting was completely unpermitted.

I checked my watch. The plane was
due to leave in thirty minutes.
Do it. You know you want to.

I couldn’t stomach her presence any
longer. I couldn’t answer any more of her idiotic questions, or pretend I
wasn’t raging to teach her a lesson. Her tripping and stumbling fucking got on
my nerves. Not to mention her blind love toward a family that no longer had any
right to her.

She needed discipline, and she
needed it now.
Your hands are bound until you get her home.

If I had to listen to one more beg
or witness another tear, I’d end up killing her before the fun began.

Nila craned her neck, trying to
read the boarding passes in my hands. Flaw, my right hand man and secretary to
the Black Diamonds brotherhood, had already checked us in. Along with dealing
with shipping my new purchase, The Little Black Dress Harley-Davidson, and
staging the runaway scene at Nila’s hotel.

In precisely six hours, a
housekeeper would find the photos, notes, and abandoned items, then the gossip
columns would spread the story like a well incubated disease.

Nila Weaver’s found love.

Nila dispels rumours she’s in
love with her twin by running off with some unknown English aristocrat.

My lips quirked at that. Me? An
aristocrat?

If only they knew my upbringing. My
history. If only Nila’s father had spent the years he’d had with her preparing
her for this day—informing her of our shared heritage, then perhaps she
wouldn’t look so fucking ill.

I’d told her the truth. Vaughn and
Archibald Weaver were under strict monitoring. If they obeyed and went along
with the ruse of Nila leaving for love, all would be harmonious.

If they didn’t—well, the Weaver
line would be snuffed out with the aid of a silenced pistol. And we didn’t want
that. After all, if there were no more Weavers, who would the Hawks rein over?
Who would continue to pay the debt?

I looked at the woman destined to
die for the mistakes of her ancestors.

She caught my eye. "Where are
you taking me?" Her cheeks were colourless even though she had to be warm
with the amount of layers she’d put on.

"I told you. Home." The
word scratched across her face like carving knives. Home to me would be hell to
her. I should’ve been more understanding—I could practically hear her heart
shatter—but I’d been born into a family where emotion was a weakness. I prided
myself on being strong, unbreakable. Empathy was the downfall of any human.

The ability to
feel
their
pain. The nuisance of
living
their trauma.

That inconvenient ability had been
beaten out of me as a child. Lesson after lesson until I embraced the cold.

The cold was emotionless. The cold
was power.

Nila sniffed, striding a few steps
away. Her curves were hidden in her new wardrobe of dark purple dress that came
to her ankles, and a denim jacket. I hadn’t permitted myself to truly look at
her. I wasn’t interested in her body. Only what her screams could deliver. She
was skinny. Too skinny. But her black hair was thick and begged to be fisted.

Watching her dress in the parking
garage irritated me. Her unsureness came across as coyness. Pulling the dress
over her skirt was a reversed striptease. Her shaking fingertips had turned the
ice in my blood into a lust I hadn’t felt since I stole my brother’s whore and
hurt her.

It wouldn’t take much to snap her
petite frame. But despite her breakable body, her eyes gave a different story.

She ran deep.

I didn’t bother caring how deep. 
But it did tempt in a way I hadn’t expected.

A girl like Nila…well, that wasn’t
something to be broken lightly.

Her complexities, subtleties,
depths, and secrets.

Each layer begged to be shattered
and destroyed.

Only once she stood before me,
stripped bare of sanity and dreams, would she be ready.

Ready to pay her final debt. 

Nila rubbed her cheek, displacing
another silent tear. That single fucking tear stopped everything, freezing over
the unwanted feeling of excitement at what my future held. Her sniffle gave me
a layer of obligation rather than anticipation.

I wasn’t going to, but she’s
given me no choice. Fuck it.

Moving closer, my hands opened to
throttle her—to give her something to truly cry about, but I restrained myself.
Just.

She looked up, eyes glassy.

I forced a smile—a half-smile,
letting her believe her tears affected me, offering false humanity. I let her
believe I had a soul and didn’t punish her for hoping. Hoping I was redeemable.

She bought it. Stupid girl.
Allowing me to offer my arm as if it were some sort of consolation and guide
her from purgatory into hell.