Rafe didn’t flinch. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”
The white-haired man stepped forward, hands clasped behind his back. “You have our full cooperation. King Mayfield has secured the best witch in the South. She can do a preliminary test, so you know what you’re up against.” His accent was Midwestern, probably ex-Council.
I leaned back in my chair, feeling the weight of it all press against my spine. “What if we fail?”
Rafe’s mouth twisted somewhere between regret and warning. “Then you run. And you never stop running.”
I looked at Bronc, who met my gaze with a quiet, unshakable resolve. “We’ll pass,” he said. “We don’t lose our own.”
The meeting ended as abruptly as it began. Rafe shook our hands—his grip a warning as much as a courtesy—and told us to report to the east parlor at 10:00 for the witch’s arrival.
Stetson caught my arm as we turned. “Don’t let them see you sweat,” he murmured, voice pitched so only I could hear. “Council loves blood, but they respect balls.”
On the way to the door, Bronc’s phone rang. It was Arsenal. He stopped dead in his tracks. He put his phone on speaker. “I’ve got Menace here with me, and I’ve put my phone on speaker. Start again.” Arsenal’s voice came across clearly.
“Savannah’s gone. They took her. I think Karen Day set her up.”
It was at that moment I felt nothing but agony and pain through our bond as I doubled over and a roar tore through my chest.
The king turned abruptly to us. “Shit. This is a setback. But her father cannot withhold her from the tests, since I’ve already made the inquiry. She must be presented to the Council for testing, and the mate mark must be left unmarred. But in the meantime, hecanwithhold her from you, Bridger. I’m sorry.”
Chapter 14
Savannah
Cold was the first thing I felt. Not the sharp, metallic chill of an exam table, but something darker—a gnawing, marrow-deep absence of warmth that radiated through me in waves. My brain trailed slowly behind my senses. I was there but not there, bobbing in a thick sludge of memory and chemical blackout, my thoughts flickering with the last images before oblivion: Karen’s face, flat and triumphant, the door slamming home behind me, Callum’s arm snaking around my throat, the click of silver cuffs.
Now I was nothing but cold and a noise. An endless, low-frequency vibration that rose and fell with the lurch of my body. I wasn’t alone in the dark. Other sounds bled through the engine’s whine—a clatter of something heavy against the metal, a hissed expletive, the slow, deliberate drag of someone’s boot heel across a grating floor.
I tried to move, and fire shot up my arms and legs. The agony woke me more than any drug or slap could have. I was bound. Silver. It ate at my wrists and ankles with a heat that felt like betrayal, a wrongness that pushed at my body’s natural urge to change, to heal, to rage. I whimpered despite myself. My body refused to answer me beyond a sick shudder.
I cataloged what little I could: face pressed against an oil-stained mat, arms wrenched behind my back, knees drawn up, the tang of my own blood in my mouth and the scald of silver at every point of contact. I was wearing my school clothes—black pants and a button-down blouse, the fabric stiff with dried sweat. I could not move my hands, or even flex my fingers; the metal cuffs were locked so tight they had burrowed deep, chafing raw. My feet were shackled together. A chain ran from my wrists to my ankles. The only blessing was they were bound in front of me, not behind. The chains must have been new; there was no give in the links, no evidence of rust. It was a setup engineered for my species.
I tasted old vomit and blood at the back of my throat. When I swallowed, my jaw ached with a thousand miniature detonations. I remembered Callum’s first punch—the sharp, wet crunch as his signet ring split my cheek open. Then the world went fuzzy for a long, blank space.
When the pain started to lessen, other details crawled in. The room—no, not a room, a cargo hold. Not on the ground. We were in the air; the floor juddering every time we hit a pocket of turbulence. It reeked of jet fuel and old sweat and the cold, chemical stink of fear. There was a slap of metal every few seconds, a reminder that the walls were not walls but something thinner, weaker. I tried to roll to my side, but only managed to shift my face against the mat. It scraped a scab from my chin, fresh blood stinging on contact.
A voice cut through the dark. “She’s stirring.” Callum. Even half-conscious, I’d know his tone anywhere. It was the same one he used as a child to gloat over every cruelty, every time he broke my things or hurt our dog.
My heart hammered in my chest, the panic threatening to throttle me, but I forced my breathing to slow. I let my eyes slit open—just enough to see. The hold was lit by a single overheadbulb, its light choked by layers of cigarette smoke and grime. Shadows pooled at the corners.
I was not alone. In front of me, leaning against a reinforced bulkhead, my father watched with the posture of a man who believed he was born to stand over people. He was in a suit, black on black, tie knotted with military precision. His hair, more silver now than red, was combed into an arrogant, perfect wave. His eyes were flat and cold and full of calculation.
A third man hunched on a bench bolted to the wall, arms folded tight across his chest, legs spread in a way that screamed entitled violence. He was younger than my father, his features harsh and beautiful and ruined all at once. His eyes, pale blue and rimmed in red, never left me. My stomach dropped through the floor. Dominic.
My father said nothing. Just watched as Callum crouched down beside me, his grin sharp and awful.
“I told you she’d wake up,” he said to no one in particular. “Always did have a weak constitution, didn’t you, Savannah?”
I wanted to spit at him, but my mouth wouldn’t work. I could only glare, blood oozing from a split at the corner of my lip.
Callum grabbed my hair and twisted my face up toward the others. I didn’t make a sound, though my vision flashed white at the pain. “Got your attention, princess?”
“Let her up,” Dominic said, the first words from his mouth.
“Why? She’s not going anywhere.” Callum’s grip tightened, yanking my scalp. “Not after what the little bitch pulled. Thinks she’s clever.”
My father’s voice was razor calm. “Enough, Callum. She’s conscious now. Let her sit. We have much to discuss before landing.”
