A small droplet of blood swelled from the puncture wound.

Plucking a tissue from the box on the sideboard, I handed it to her.

Taking it reluctantly, she asked sadly, “What is it? What did you just give me?”

I ran a hand through my hair. “Call it a pre-emptive.”

Nila frowned. “Pre-emptive against what?”

“Any plans you might have.”

My temper glowed as I remembered her note to her brother. Had she come to the same conclusion my father had, or was she still blindly believing I felt something for her? Silly, girl.

“I have no plans. I don’t understand.” She swung her legs over the table, rubbing her arm.

I moved closer, pressing both hands against her cheeks, imprisoning her. She shied away, but I slid my fingers behind her skull, wrapping them in the thick strands of her hair.

The touch wasn’t meant to be kind or gentle. It was meant to show who was in power and it was about fucking time she learned that.

“It’s pre-emptive; to make sure the Final Debt will be repaid.”

Colour washed from her cheeks. “What do you mean?”

I cocked my head. “Come on. Don’t continue to play me when you’ve already lost.” Running my thumb along her bottom lip, I whispered, “You were clever, I will admit. But not clever enough. There is nothing you can do to hinder my plans.”

She gasped, her soul falling from her eyes.

She finally understood. “How could you? How could you be so…heartless?”

Tugging her hair, I kissed her jaw. “It was you who saved me from such a stupid notion of feelings. The day you left, I thought my life was over. But then I found a new way—a better way—and I’m no longer your toy to play with.” Pressing soft kisses down her throat, her pulse throbbed beneath my lips. “No more plans. No more games. It was a contraceptive, Nila. Now do you get it?”

Silence.

Her heartbeat exploded, blood gushing, heating her paper-thin skin below my threatening kisses.

“I’ve stolen what you hoped to steal from me, Ms. Weaver. There will be no children. No half-breeds. No saviour. I’ve won.”

“MS. WEAVER, SO nice to meet you.”

My attention snapped to the man wearing designer jeans and a cream tailored shirt. His hair was artfully coiffed, and he’d rimmed his baby-blue eyes with kohl. Thin and handsome, he was obviously gay and perfect for the role of jotting down gossip.

“There will be no children. No half-breeds. No saviour. I’ve won.”

I stared blankly, unable to do anything but listen to the echo of Jethro's voice inside my head.

“I’ve won. I’ve won. I’ve won.”

Tears pricked my eyes for the hundredth time since I’d arrived back at Hawksridge. How could he say that? He’d lost. We both had. Somehow, Cut had turned Jethro into his lap dog and the connection we’d shared gurgled down a drain of despair.

What if I had been pregnant? Would the contraceptive have hurt the baby?

How could Jethro do something so terrible?

I hate it here.

I positively hate it here.

I’d always hated it here.

How could I return with such stupid plans? How did I think I could save Jethro and kill Cut? What an idiot!

Jethro doesn’t even want saving.

Not after what they’d done to him.

“Ms. Weaver? Are you quite well?”

I shook my head, sniffing back unshed tears and doing my best to focus.

Gay Reporter’s assistant smiled, her purple fluffy pen tapping her chin in concern. “Can we get you a glass of water or something?”

“She’s fine,” Jethro murmured in his signature soft voice. I’d forgotten how smooth and precise he was. Forgotten how rigid he held himself, how restrained and contained and arctically frigid.

I shot him a look full of venom. “Actually, I would love a glass of water.”

Jethro pursed his lips as the blonde-haired woman who looked like a delicious cupcake in her pale pink dress and curves sprang from her chair.

She giggled. “I can’t believe I get to play hostess in this place.” Moving to the sideboard where an array of drinks and hors d'oeuvres had been set by invisible staff, she poured me a glass and came back. “Truly, it’s an incredible home you have here, Mr. Hawk.”

I smiled in thanks, taking the offered water.

Jethro shifted on the settee beside me, his temper gathering a tempest. “I’m so glad you like it.” Clasping his hands, he glowered at the reporter. “Are we quite ready to begin? I have a few other appointments that demand my attention.”

Gay Reporter nodded, sitting higher on the mirroring settee opposite us. “Yes, of course.” Revealing tic-tac perfect teeth, he began his well-rehearsed speech. “First, we want to say what an honour it is to be chosen for the exclusive interview. I have no doubt that our readers at Vanity Fair will highly enjoy such an intriguing piece. My name is George, and this is Sylvie.”

His eyes bounced between Jethro and me. “I predict the interview will go on for about thirty minutes, followed by a short tour of the grounds and anything else you wish to share with us for the article. Does that sound satisfactory?”

Sylvie scooped out a voice recorder, iPhone, and notepad and arranged her arsenal on the coffee table.

“Fine,” Jethro murmured, playing with a diamond cufflink. He looked resplendent in a grey cashmere suit and open-necked white shirt. His salt and pepper hair caught the light with distinguished old-world wealth and his shiny Gucci shoes were pristine.