Page 71 of Debt of My Soul

“Fleur?” He murmurs my name as if he’s creeping slowly behind me, attempting not to scare a frightened animal. I release the bands without a snap.

The heat of Liam’s palm hangs just above my shoulder like he wants to set it there. But it drops away, the whoosh of air fluttering against my back and producing a shiver instead.

For a moment, I mourn the loss of the would-be touch, but it lasts a split second before it’s replaced with relief and the realization of where I’m standing—the charred dirt beneath my feet compliments ofhispeople.

Continuing to scan the rubble, I’m half tempted to start digging for anything salvageable. It’s ridiculous. I wasn’t here that long. Only recently did I start to feel more at home in my newly renovated house and less like a guest. Still, it was my soft place to land after Chris and—I look around the empty fields surrounding us—it served as a peaceful place for the pain. I’d pictured myself here much longer than the time I had.

A snap of a twig near my side makes me jump. Liam’s thundering frame slides up to my right, arms crossed in front of him as he looks from the toppled mess to my fractured expression.

“It’s not all lost.” The warmth of his breath skirts along my cheek as he speaks those words to me. I, however, keep my face forward, willing him to turn away and do the same. His words sound like he’s mumbling something profound, when in reality all I hear is false hope.

“I doubt that’s in the cards for me.”

“And why’s that?” he asks.

“Because it takes time, money, and freedom I don’t currently have.”

Liam’s jaw works back and forth before his throat bobs and his fingers, rested on his muscles, flex. He dips his chin, leveling his eyes with mine, and I squirm under the intensity of them.

Unable to stay here any longer, I turn to go, but a calloused hand wraps around my wrist. He doesn’t pull. There’s only a slight tug that feathers out from the tips of his fingers, pressing into my skin. At first, I divert my gaze to the beautiful oak still standing untouched in my front yard before it snaps back to his. And, as if he noted my expression from his touch, he drops my hand like it singed his own.

I glance down at my wrist, looking for marks to go along with the sizzling burn emanating from my joint.

“We need to discuss tonight,” Liam says, his tone no longer soft. I’ve heardtonightmentioned several times. And I’ll admit my curiosity is piqued when worry, and perhaps shame, tightens Liam’s mouth into a thin line. He doesn’t strike me as a person to be bothered by much, yet he looks … bothered.

I kick at the gravel driveway, a pebble skipping across and into the lawn. “Discuss away.”

He blows out a breath and tells me about the branding.

When the wheels of Liam’s truck move from the smooth pavement of the Trace to the rutty dirt road leading to the compound, I recoil. Liam filled me in as we stood in front of my scorched home, and frankly, the irony almost made me laugh. Actually, I did laugh, from complete nervousness and the sheer horrifying act I’m about to endure.

They brand their people.

Their wives and members.

I’m—I’m to be branded.

Tonight.

I lean my face into the rays of sun slowly straining through the tall pines, wishing it were winter so the window would be cool under my cheek. I could use the chill to cope with the raging anger.

Liam explained all members who live on the compound, or have privileged access to it, receive this mark. Apparently, it started when Darrin first had problems with his dealers. With so many of them, and the high rate of turnover, it was becoming impossible to distinguish whose dealer belonged to what drug lord. Reports of shootouts over a deal gone bad would reach his ears and when he went to look at the scene, he didn’t know which men were his. Mutilated bodies or minor decomposition made identification difficult.

It grew from there.

He branded all his men with the Jackpot symbol of a horseshoe. It extends to his private gaming establishments as well, requiring guests to present an obsidian-colored card with a white horseshoe on it to get in.

I wonder if Adam has one of those cards.

Eventually, the brand extended to the women Darrin’s men claimed. Easy to identify, yet, also to mark them.

The two scones I devoured at the bed-and-breakfast threaten to make an appearance. Between the churning of my stomach in response to iron searing my flesh, and the constantdip, dip, bumpof the road, I need to crank the window down.

As I stick my head out to let the warm air topple into my mouth and nose, Liam turns to me, eyes darting between me and the road.

“It will be over fast.”

His words don’t comfort me.

---