The Dragon's Wing (Kit Davenport Book 2)

by Tate James

  “Now now, dragă,” my captor purred with a sharp edge of danger in his voice. “You seem to have misunderstood the situation that you’re currently in. These men work for me. They will not help you.”

  I looked up at the man in front of me, pleading with my eyes that he do something to help me. Surely he wasn’t just going to stand by while this caveman threw me over his shoulder and bundled me onto a plane to fuck knows where. My stomach sank hard as the man dropped his eyes to the ground, backing away a step.

  “My apologies, Românul,” he murmured with a submissive head dip. “I should have taken more care.”

  “Yes. You should have. I’ll deal with you later,” the man gripping my neck snapped, using that hand to steer me back toward his plane.

  “You can’t do this,” I whimpered pathetically. I had intended for it to come out strong and defiant, but my voice box was betraying me, as were the rogue tears sliding down my face.

  He paused a moment, forcefully turning my head to face him and searing me with his ice cold, murderous glare. “I assure you, I can.” Holy shit, this guy makes Cole look like a teddybear by comparison. He is fucking terrifying!

  I considered using my strength to overpower him and make another break for the car, but a quick glance at the waiting security dissuaded me of that notion. They were watching us like hawks, their hands resting far too comfortably on their obviously displayed handguns. One guy even had a machine gun slung over his shoulder. Who the hell were these people?

  As much as my healing power had progressed lately, no longer requiring an adrenaline surge to trigger it, I still wasn’t willing to test Dupree’s claim that I might be immortal. Call me crazy, but that didn’t seem like the sort of theory that allowed any margin for error.

  My captor—what had that man called him? Românul? He jerked me to an abrupt stop in front of the man who had been guarding me. Red faced and sweating, the man held his broken wrist close to his chest as he swore at me in his language.

  “Now then,” Românul said in a deathly quiet voice. “I left Gheorghe to escort you onto my plane, and I found you attempting to steal one of my security’s cars. Would one of you care to explain this to me?”

  “You’ve kidnapped me; what the fuck did you expect?” I spat at him, finally getting my moxie back and losing the slur from my words.

  “Technically, I wasn’t the one who kidnapped you. I merely purchased you. But I concede that as a fair point.” He dipped his head, being surprisingly reasonable for all the fury in his gaze. “Gheorghe?”

  “Românul, sir, this curvă broke my fucking wrist,” the man snarled, and I got the impression that Românul was a title rather than a name and that curvă was not a term of endearment.

  “Maybe you need to invest in better security, Românul,” I sneered, giving the injured guard a bitchy smile. “Ones that aren’t so easily overpowered by a little girl in heels?” Not that I was any ordinary little girl in heels, but there was no sense in drawing attention to my strength. The guard, Gheorghe, clearly didn’t appreciate my suggestion, though, and cracked a sharp backhand across my face. My head snapped to the side, and my jaw dropped in shock.

  Really wish I had broken his right hand instead because that hurt!

  “No woman speaks to Românul with such disrespect!” he hissed at me, spit flying as his infuriated face encroached on my personal space. I had just sucked in a breath to give him a piece of my mind when I heard a muffled pop, almost like the sound of a chipmunk sneezing, before something hot and wet spattered across my face.

  For a second I was stunned before the metallic taste dripping into my open mouth registered that my new owner had just shot Gheorghe in the head! Woah! What the fuck?

  “Let this be a lesson.” His stone cold voice boomed across the silent airstrip as his guards all stared back at us. “Don’t ever lay your hands on my property. Am I clear?” There was a murmuring of yes, sirs from the men, and then Românul, whatever that meant, turned his scary-as-fuck glare on me.

  “I will forgive this first transgression as I should have introduced myself sooner. My name is Dragomir Valeriu du Romane but I am known as Românul, or The Romanian. I am not a nice man, nor do I tolerate insubordination. That was Gheorghe’s second offense in my service, and as you can see, I do not permit a third. Now, we are getting on my plane, and I would really rather if you did so without any more fuss. It is damn expensive cleaning up bodies on foreign soil.” He held my gaze for a long moment, giving away nothing but death and destruction in his eyes. “Do you have anything to say before we go, dragă?”

  “I think I’m going to be sick,” I announced, before bending over and vomiting bile all over his immaculate designer shoes. Instead of the violent repercussions I was expecting, I felt his hands gently gather my tangled, greasy hair up and hold it out of the way while my stomach ejected what little contents it possessed.

  “Come on,” he murmured so quietly I barely heard him. “Get on the plane, and you can take a shower. You smell atrocious.”

  Desperately trying not to look at Gheorghe’s body on the tarmac, I meekly followed along, too tired to worry about what new hell I would be entering by going with him, The Romanian.

  8

  Once on board the aircraft, we were greeted by a grinning air hostess whose uniform was a touch too tight and makeup a touch too heavy.

  “Românul, you’re back! We missed you,” she purred in what was probably intended to be a seductive way. To me, she just looked desperate. She stroked a red fingernail down the front of Dragomir’s shirt, but he brushed past her with barely a glance.

  “Maria, fetch some of Elena’s spare clothes for my guest,” he commanded, taking a seat in one of the oversized, cream leather armchairs and buckling his safety belt. “Sit down. You can’t shower until after take off, and I am sure you’d rather have something clean to change into?” He was right; I desperately did want a change of clothes, even if they did belong to one of his mistresses or slaves.

  I did as I was told, sliding into the seat opposite him and attempting to buckle the seatbelt with shaking hands. After my fourth failed attempt to make the two ends meet, he reached over and slapped my hands aside, clicking it together for me and jerking it tight. My mouth reflexively opened to thank him, my boarding school manners almost taking over before I caught myself. You do not thank the man who just murdered someone in front of you, Kit.

  “Oh don't give me that look,” he snorted, sitting back in his own chair and levelling an intense look my way. “Gheorghe has had that coming for a really long time. Trust me when I say the world is a better place without men like him.”

  I pursed my lips and didn't take the bait. As horrifying as it was that he had just shot a man in cold blood, my hands were hardly spotless themselves. I closed my eyes to block out his heavy stare and tried to calm my mind. I was exhausted, like I had just run a marathon, which must be thanks to my body burning through whatever was in that drug at the auction house.

  Since learning that my healing ability might be applied to others, not just to myself, I had taken up meditation in an effort to try and get a handle on whatever it was that made me heal. So far, I hadn't had much luck. But the breathing exercises had really helped me keep my temper when Austin was driving me ballistic.

  Austin. What the hell am I going to do about him? Goddamn, that makeout in the paintball park was hot. Even if I did think he was Caleb.

  “You still awake there?” Dragomir's velvet voice cut through my quiet mind and shocked me back to the present. I cracked an eye open to glare at him. As if I could sleep while being held captive on a plane to a mystery location when a dead man's blood was crusting on my skin.

  “We are at cruising altitude, if you wanted to take that shower. Unless you need assistance?” He quirked a suggestive eyebrow, and I didn't bother to hide a shudder of revulsion. Showering with murderous slave owners was not high on my to-do list.

  I unclipped my safety belt and picked up the pile
of neatly folded clothing that had been placed on the small foldout table in front of me. Just my luck, as I stood from my seat, still in the ridiculous stripper heels, the plane banked slightly, causing me to lose my balance and topple straight into Dragomir's lap.

  “You could have just asked nicely, dragă; there was no need to throw yourself at me while covered in blood.” His dry remark held a little too much seriousness for my liking. I scrambled madly to regain my feet and quickly headed down the aisle before he could see my beet red face. I assumed the shower would be at the back of the plane.

  Thankfully, I was right and didn't need to walk back up the aisle to find it. Once inside I locked the door and stared at the flimsy lock for a moment. It wasn't likely to keep anyone out if they were determined, but I guessed it was the best I was going to get.

  I sighed and stripped out of the blood-splatted coat, then practically tore the slutty auction house outfit from my body. Stepping into the shower, I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the mirror that I had been deliberately ignoring and gasped. I looked like Carrie after she got the bucket of pig’s blood dumped on her. Except this wasn't pig’s blood. Holding my breath to prevent another round of vomiting, I quickly stepped into the water.

  I stayed under the spray until I was confident I was as clean as I could be before stepping out and wrapping myself in an absurdly soft towel. Picking up the pile of clothing that belonged to Elena, whoever she was, I saw the hostess had even included a bra and panties for me. The idea of wearing someone else's underwear made me cringe though, and the bra was far too small, so I decided to commando it. Thankfully, I had been given sensible clothes that wouldn't make my lack of underwear too evident.

  Once dressed, and unable to find a hairdryer or brush, I no longer had any excuse to stay in the bathroom. Taking a deep breath to calm my frayed nerves, I stepped back out into the main cabin and made my way back to my seat. As I walked, I could feel the leering eyes of Dragomir's security burning into my backside where Elena's jeans were just a touch too tight.

  I gave the aircraft a quick glance to find a seat further away from my captor, but those were all taken by his men. Reluctantly, I slid back into the seat opposite him and buckled my seatbelt tightly across my lap. For lack of anything better to do, I picked up the emergency procedure pamphlet from one of the discreet side pockets on the wall. I was pleased to notice my hands had stopped shaking.

  I took my time reading the pamphlet, committing every word to memory and then reading it again. Not because I was afraid of flying but because I was afraid of making eye contact with the intense man whose cold, cruel gaze I could feel firmly fixated on my face while I read.

  “Interesting read?” he finally asked, breaking the tense silence, and I fought the natural instinct to look up and acknowledge him. I didn't respond, instead reading over the pamphlet for a third time. I think I could fairly safely say I was now well informed on all of the evacuation procedures in the event of an emergency.

  “You know, it's almost a six hour flight back to my home from where we were, and you only managed to use up thirty minutes in the shower. How many times do you think you'd be able to read that page in that amount of time?” His dry, amused tone grated against my nerves, and the fingers of my free hand curled into a fist while I envisioned smacking the amusement clean off his handsome face. Asshole.

  “You must be hungry… I can't imagine the slave traders had made it their top priority to feed you while in captivity,” he mused, inspecting my body as though I should be totally emaciated with ribs sticking out. Damn him for speaking my language, though; I was starving, and my stomach echoed that sentiment by growling loudly. He smirked at the sound, and I gritted my teeth in an effort not to punch him in the mouth. As tempting as it was, it would only cause more problems for me while in midair.

  “I’ll tell you what,” he purred, a sly grin across his face. “I will provide a meal if you answer all of my questions while you eat.” My glare narrowed at him.

  Surely he hadn't spent three point five million dollars for the scintillating pleasure of my conversation?

  My mind was made up for me, though, when the same hostess appeared as if from thin air, carrying a tray which smelled like the most heavenly creation in the world, and my belly cramped painfully.

  “Fine,” I ground out from behind clenched teeth, then needed to force myself not to snatch the food as the hostess slowly unfolded a table from my armrest and placed the tray down in front of me. Holy fucking shit, steak!

  I stifled a groan as the smell of it reached my nose and tried to calmly pick up my cutlery and eat with a little dignity, while on the inside my belly wanted to tear into the food like some sort of rabid animal. “I presume I guessed correctly that you're a carnivore then?” my companion commented, his heavy stare making me think there was subtext to that statement that my poor food-deprived brain wasn't computing.

  Ignoring him, I placed a huge forkful of food in my mouth. As awful as airline food generally was, this was definitely the exception to the rule, and I struggled not to cram it in any faster. Logic told me that if it had truly been a long time since I had eaten, then I needed to take this slowly or I'd be decorating the carpet soon.

  “So, tell me dragă, how did you end up in the Onyx Auction?” The psychotic man across from me was wasting no time getting his questions started, although that wasn't exactly what I had expected. I wasn't entirely sure what I had expected, to be honest, but it wasn't that.

  “That's what you want to know?” I asked suspiciously in between mouthfuls.

  “For now,” he replied, relaxing back into his seat.

  I pursed my lips, thinking about what harm there could be in answering honestly. “I was kidnapped, like I keep telling you.”

  “Obviously.” He rolled his eyes. “Elaborate, please.”

  I sighed, too tired to play games. “I was kidnapped from my home in Washington. Some asshole that I had run into a couple of times before came out of nowhere and chloroformed me. Next thing I knew, I was waking up in an underground cell, then drugged and sold on a stage in some dodgy looking strip club.” I glared at him. “Where you paid a small fortune to buy me rather than letting that disgusting old pedophile win the auction.” At this, his left eyebrow arched in curiosity.

  “You knew him? The man bidding against me?” He seemed genuinely surprised at this, and I was relieved to see they weren't working together in some way.

  “That was the first time I had seen him in a long time. Almost six years. It honestly never occurred to me that he might have had a hand in my abduction.” I dodged his eye contact, not willing to give away any more information on that subject. I knew my eyes would give away more than I was comfortable with while I desperately shoved the memories back in their little locked box.

  “Interesting…” he murmured. “So you are from Washington? That's a big city, is it not?”

  “No.” I shook my head, grateful for the safe subject. “State, not DC. Opposite sides of the country. And I'm not technically from there; I was just going to school there.”

  “So you were kidnapped from your school? You seem a little old… no offense.” He smiled at me congenially, and I snorted at the normal conversation I was having with someone who’d just blown a man's brains out in front of me not an hour ago. I really am a magnet for crazies and trouble after all.

  “Ah yeah, I am. But I had just graduated,” I said, not offering anything extra.

  “I see. So what were you doing that allowed you to be surprised by a man with chloroform?” he pressed, and for some reason the words just kept rolling off my tongue.

  “I was at paintball.” He frowned in confusion, “You know, where you shoot the other team with bullets made of paint?” He hummed and nodded his understanding, then gestured for me to continue. “I was there with some friends, and when I was walking back to the starting point, Sergei just popped out of nowhere.”

  “And where were these friends of yours while you
were being kidnapped? They just let this happen?” He scowled, and I felt a strong surge of protectiveness for my guys.

  “No they did not just let it happen,” I snapped. “They were already back at the starting point. They would never, ever, have let Sergei get away with it had they been anywhere nearby.”

  He sat back in his seat, silent and watching me for a minute while I used the break to stuff more of the buttery steak into my mouth. I was careful to chew slowly before swallowing in order to give my stomach time to adjust.

  “Tell me about these friends of yours,” he ordered, surprising me with the segue.

  “Why do you want to know about my friends?” I asked hesitantly. While I didn't care much about telling my story—given I was already up shit creek—I wasn't so free to speak about them.

  “Humor me.” He grinned like a crocodile, a curious glint in his granite gray eyes.

  I frowned, intending to say nothing, but couldn't seem to filter my thoughts before the words began tumbling out once more. “What do you want to know about them? I met them recently, and they saved my life a couple of times, and now I'm sort of living with them. Or at least I was until all of this happened. They're probably really worried about me right now, and I wouldn't be surprised if they tracked me down and caused all sorts of trouble for you. You should probably just send me home and save yourself the bother.”

  “Oh, I should, should I?” I could see him trying to hold back laughter. “What makes you so confident they will track you down? You don't even know where we are, and it has already been ten days since you went missing. The trail, as they say, has gone very cold.”

  “You underestimate my friends,” I informed him. “They are some of the best undercover agents in the world, so I have no doubt they'll find me sooner or later.” What the hell?! Why did I just tell him that? Kit, shut the hell up! “And it can't have been ten days since I was taken; I would have already died from dehydration. Not to mention the fact that drugs don't work anywhere near as well on me as they do normal people, so it would have been impossible to keep me unconscious unless they were repeatedly chloroforming me.” At this point I forcefully clapped a hand over my mouth to stop the flow of word vomit before I gave away any more secrets. What is going on? This guy is so far on the wrong side of the law it is laughable, and here I am just spilling my guts to him like we are besties! Maybe the drugs from the auction were still affecting my brain somehow.