Steady and strong.
Jethro’s heartbeat had been irregular and terrified.
I cried harder. Not just for how royally I’d screwed everything up but for leaving Jethro when I’d promised I’d stay.
Please, please let him be alright.
“It’s okay, Threads. I gotcha. You’re safe now. Those fucking bastards will never come near you again. You hear me? Never.” His voice was harsh with promise.
He sounded so young compared to the scratch and scrawl of Jethro’s immaculate eloquence. Swear words were something Jethro only resorted to when he couldn’t control himself—whereas my brother used them as punctuation.
“Nila.”
My body stiffened at my name…at the way my father breathed it so lovingly.
V unwound his arms. I raised my head and looked into my father’s eyes. Archibald ‘Tex’ Weaver looked a hundred years older. His toned physique was gone, replaced by a sagging middle and even worse sagging eyes. His effortless style of slacks and shirts had been switched for baggy jeans and stained polo shirts.
His despair—the complete abandonment of everything he’d been—was better than any spoken apology. More poignant than any beg or plea for understanding.
“I’m so sorry, Nila,” he choked, tears glittering.
I was livid. I was distraught. I had so many unresolved issues toward my father but we were family. Forgiveness was utmost.
Another sob escaped as I shuffled closer. V never let me go. Instead, Tex came to us. He wrapped his strong arms around his son and daughter and crushed us to the bone. His cheeks grew damp with sadness, and his signature smell of Old Spice tore up my nose and ripped my brain into ribbons.
Oh, God. Oh, God.
The world spun.
Faster and faster and faster.
In my family’s joint embrace—the same embrace where I’d found such comfort before—now I only found sickness and horror.
I screeched as my ears roared; my eyes slid to the back of my head.
Round and around and around.
I suffered the worst vertigo spell in years.
I trembled so much, no one could hold me. They let me go, leaving me to suffer alone. They had experience dealing with me—they knew when I became like this, touch was the worst kind of torture.
V and my father guided me to the floor where I kneeled with my head on my knees, trying to hold on to the world that’d suddenly gone mad.
Down was up and up was down.
Their voices plaited into concern, rushing around, making the spinning worse.
Sickness became nausea which became overwhelming.
I couldn’t get it under control. I was completely at the mercy of my broken mind.
I threw up.
A small, tiny voice in my head squeaked. Vertigo or pregnant?
I threw up again.
Never. Not possible. I couldn’t be.
“Shit, Threads.” Vaughn squatted beside me. His hands twitched to touch me. To rub my shoulders and tuck my hair behind my ear. But he knew to stay away. If he rocked me or tried to comfort me, my body might hurl me into another episode.
It was me who had to stand—me who had to heal.
The vertigo wave spun faster, stealing my ability to think. My body bellowed from my other injuries.
My father stood over us, his scruffy jaw clenched. He used to be such a support system—such a much-needed part of my life. Now, he made me shatter. My newfound strength slowly siphoned into a cesspit of misery.
The world continued to swing like a crazy pendulum, sending my brain sloshing.
V whispered, “You’re here. You’re safe. Those motherfucking sons of bitches will pay for what they did. Starting with Jethro Hawk.”
Don’t touch him!
His voice had a duplex effect. My past personality sank into his capability and brotherly strength—grateful that he was now in charge. While the new Nila cringed from relying on anyone but herself.
I had him to thank for my freedom.
I had him to thank for my misery.
I lifted my head. Vaughn’s black eyes stared into mine, and the love I felt for my twin broke through. I hated myself for my previous thoughts.
I was safe. I should be so grateful.
But every minute that ticked past, I vowed to go back. Not because I’d been brainwashed into accepting torture or pain, but because death had tried to claim me only for love to save me instead. Jethro had brought me to life. I wouldn’t leave him behind.
We’ll both break free. We have to.
My heart twinged thinking of Jethro. I was lucky enough to be loved and accepted by a family who cared for me, even if they never really knew me.
What did he have?
A prison cell that’d existed all his life.
A future that might destroy him.
Collapsing to my side, I wrapped my arms around myself and heaved. My throat howled from drowning. My head pounded. And through it all, all I could think was…
This would never have happened if Jethro were here.
His very soul was an anchor.
The one I needed the most.
I groaned at the horrible irony.
I was free at Hawksridge in a way that I could never be free in London.
I couldn’t live without him.
I didn’t want to live without him.
I need to save him.
And soon.
THE CURE BEGAN slowly—whispering across my thoughts.
The unravelling Nila had achieved slowly stitched itself back together. The love, the panic, the pressure…it all faded.
My intense world became shrouded. The glare of intensity diminished and, tablet by tablet, I grew delightfully numb.