Fourth Debt - Pepper Winters Page 0,51

will do or not do.”

Bonnie scowled.

Her tiny stature sat proud and stiff; arthritic fingers tossed aside a newly snipped tulip and wrapped around her walking stick. Never breaking eye contact, she stood from her chair and inched forward.

I stood my ground even though every part of me vibrated with the urge to smash the crystal vase over her head.

We didn’t speak as the distance closed between us. For an old woman, she wasn’t bowed or creaky. She moved slowly but with purpose. Hazel eyes sharp and cruel and her signature red lipstick smeared thin lips. “That mouth of yours will be taught a lesson now that you’re in my youngest grandson’s care.”

Not if I kill him first.

I balled my hands, keeping my chin high as Bonnie circled around me like a decrepit raptor. Stopping behind me, she tugged my long hair. “Cut this. It’s far too long.”

Locking my knees, I forced myself to remain tall. She’d lost the power to make me cower. “It’s my hair, my body. I can do whatever the hell I want with it.”

She yanked on the strands. “Think again, Weaver.” Letting me go, she continued her perusal, coming to a stop in front of me. Her eyes came to my chin. The height difference helped me in some small margin to look down on her—both physically and metaphorically.

This woman was as twisted as the boughs of an ancient tree, but unlike a tree, her heart had blackened and withered. She’d lived long enough. It was time she left the world, letting bygones be bygones.

Her breath rattled in antique lungs, sounding rusty and ill-used.

Minutes screeched past, both of us waiting to see what the other would do. I broke first, but only because my patience where Bonnie was concerned was non-existent.

Jethro’s alive.

The sooner I evicted Bonnie from my presence, the sooner I could think about him again.

“Spit it out.”

She froze. “Spit what out?”

My spine curved toward her, bringing our faces closer. The waft of sugar and flowers wrapped around my gag reflex. “What do you want from me?”

Her gaze tightened. “I want a great deal from you, child. And your impatience won’t make me deliver it any faster.” Snatching my wrist, she grabbed a thorny rose from the table and punctured my palm with the devilish bloom.

I bit my lip as blood welled.

She chuckled. “That’s for not knowing how to flower arrange.”

She let me go. Instead of dropping the rose, I curled my hand around it, digging the thorn deeper into my flesh. If I couldn’t withstand the discomfort of a small prick, how did I hope to withstand more?

This is my weapon.

Conditioning myself to pain so it no longer controlled me.

Blood puddled, warm and sticky, in my closed fist. Taking a breath, I reached around Bonnie and elegantly placed the rose into the oasis, opening my palm and raining droplets of blood all over virgin petals and tablecloth. “Oops.”

Bonnie’s face blackened as I wiped the remaining crimson on a fancy piece of ribbon. “Anyone can arrange flowers, but it takes a seamstress to turn blood into a design.” My voice lowered, recalling how many nights I’d sliced myself with scissors or pricked myself with needles. I was used to getting hurt in the process of creation.

This was no different.

I would be hurt in the process of something far more noble—fighting for my life.

“You can’t scare me anymore.” I held up my palm, shoving it in her face. “Blood doesn’t scare me. Threats don’t scare me. I know what you are and you’re just a weak, old woman who hides behind insanity like it’s some mystical power.”

Marquise stood from his chair by the wall. “Madame?”

I glanced at him, throwing a condescending smile. “Don’t interrupt two women talking. If she can’t handle a silly little Weaver, then she has no right to pretend otherwise.”

“Sit down, Marquise.” Bonnie breathed hard, glaring at me. “I’ve never met someone so unrefined and uncouth.”

“You obviously never paid close attention to your granddaughter then.”

She’s rough as sandpaper and tough as steel.

Jasmine could lie like the best of them, but beneath that silk and satin façade, she outweighed me in strength of temper ten to one.

Why tell Bonnie that then? Shut up.

Bonnie shoved her finger in my face. “Don’t talk about her. Jasmine is a woman of eloquence. She knows how to speak three languages, play the piano, stitch, sing, and run a time-worn estate. She outranks you in every conceivable way.”

She has you fooled as wonderfully as she did me.

My respect for