Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
FIONA
M y abductor is in the room again. Connor. He said his name was Connor. He offers me a white oval pill. I recognize it as a drug I’ve taken before to help with pain when I’ve had a flare. He helps me sit up and pops it into my mouth, then raises a glass to my lips. Something herbal but fruity washes over my tongue. Lavender lemonade maybe. For a second I consider he might be drugging me, then realize if he wanted me dead, I’d already be in the ground, and my own body is doing a good enough job keeping me sedated. I drink the entire glass, yelping when his supportive hand hits a sore spot on my back. He lowers me onto the bed with a curse and mumbled apology.
Exhausted, I fall asleep as soon as my head hits the pillow.
The next time I open my eyes, there’s food. He tries to sit me up to feed me, but I can hardly keep my eyes open. Everything hurts. He helps me take another pill and feeds me some fresh bread. Where did he get fresh bread? I swallow and then fall asleep again.
The next time I open my eyes, there’s a giant stuffed dragon next to my head. Despite myself, I laugh. This must be my prize from the prize table. I grab it and hug it to me. I should be trying to escape. I should try to contact Roman. I should…
My eyes open again. He’s carrying me to the bathroom. Sitting me on the toilet. I do what I have to do. He carries me back to bed and gives me another pain pill.
He’s taking good care of me. I guess I’m useless to him dead. I hope Vivian isn’t worried about me. Vivian. Roman. Everyone must be looking for me.
When I open my eyes again, Connor is stretched out next to me in bed. He’s fully dressed, on the outside of the covers, facing me. I watch him sleep for an embarrassingly long time. No one should watch their abductor like that. He truly does look like a Viking. Like Thor. A Nordic god. I’m unnerved by his resemblance to Henrik Angel, quite literally a man plucked from my imagination. He had wings before, but they’re gone now. Did I really see wings or was that a fever dream? I have the unmistakable urge to run my hand along the skin of his arm.
He opens his eyes.
I close mine.
My cheeks heat, and I can almost forget that gnawing pain consumes every joint in my body, that I can barely move, that I’m a prisoner here, held by a creature so beautiful I can hardly look straight at him because it’s like staring into the sun. I sleep again.
I wake again to light streaming through the window into the small room. The pain is less today, and I’m not sure if it’s because of the pills my captor has been giving me or if my fibro flare is running its course. For the first time, he’s not in the room. I glance down at the stuffed dragon in my arms and then throw it to the other side of the bed. How long have I been out? The pills on the bedside table say every twelve hours. I try to think back. How many times did he help me swallow them? The bottle says ten pills. I pour the remainder out in my hand. Five left. I’ve been out almost three days. Jesus. Has Roman tried to get me back? Is Vivian freaking out?
I tip the pills back into the bottle and set them on the nightstand.
For the first time, I’m awake enough to take in my surroundings. This is a cute room. Rich woods and dark-blue-and-green-plaid linens. A leather recliner in the corner has a navy-colored pillow with a Labrador on it. The drapes are a matching navy. If I didn’t know better, I’d think I was in a five-star hotel rather than my captor’s cabin.
My captor. Connor. What the fuck is he? I remember wings. We flew fast. Far. Not human. Dragon. Something about an order. That murder in Paris. People who want him dead.
I sigh and glance in the direction of the en suite bathroom. It’s right there but feels so far away. I try to push up into a sitting position, but my head spins. Stripes of pain erupt down my back like I’ve been clawed open. I flop back down on the bed with a whimper.
The door opens and the Viking walks in. Damn it. Why does he have to look like that? And see me like this? So vulnerable. So weak. I bet he’s loving that his prisoner can’t put up a fight.
He swallows, and I have to admit he doesn’t look like he’s loving this. He looks concerned. Really fucking concerned, like he’s afraid I might be dying. “I heard you moan. Are you okay?”
Am I okay? Am I the fuck okay? Oh shit, here it comes. I’m angry, and something about this guy just makes me want to erupt. “No, motherfucker, I am not okay. My entire body hurts like I’m on fire, I haven’t eaten since the bread and cheese you fed me like, I don’t know how long ago, I think my painkiller stopped working, and I’m stuck here with you in the frozen tundra of God knows where, rather than in my own bed with my new husband in the south of France. Why on earth would you think I’d be okay? You empty-headed, lizard-brained, Viking-sized piece of shit!” I clap a hand over my mouth to stop the verbal diarrhea pouring out of me.
Oh. My. God. Have all my instincts for self-preservation gone out the window? What the fuck was I thinking talking to this thing, this creature, like that? I’d never speak to Roman like that. I’d never speak to anyone like that. But something about Connor just seems to bring it out in me.
He peers at me through narrowed eyes for a moment. And then, as if he’s as surprised as I am and thoroughly amused by my behavior, he starts to laugh. He winks at me like I’m a kitten scratching at him uselessly with my tiny claws. “Glad you’re feeling better, Fi.”
“Who said you could call me Fi?”
“No one. I do what I want.”
“Obviously, or I wouldn’t be here, would I?”
There’s a beat where I think he’s going to say something, and then he’s scooping me into his arms.
“Where are you taking me?”
“Bathroom.”
“How did you know I needed to use the bathroom?” A chill runs through me at the idea that he can somehow tell.
He sets me on my feet in front of the toilet. “It’s been twelve hours since I last carried you in here. Call it a lucky guess.”
I wait. “Aren’t you going to leave?” I nod toward the door.
“You need help?” He gestures toward my lower half.
“No!” I say emphatically. All I’m wearing is Connor’s huge sweatshirt and my underwear, and I do not want him pulling down my underwear. Then I realize we’ve been here before and he’s already helped me with it. My cheeks heat again.
“Right. I’ll be on the other side of the door if you need me,” he mumbles.
I wait until he delivers on his promise before slowly drawing up the sweatshirt and using the toilet. It takes me four times longer than it should. When I’m finished, I manage to pull myself together and wash my hands, catching my reflection in the mirror above the sink. Shit, I’m a mess. My hair is sticking out at odd angles, stiff in places from leftover hairspray but falling or sticking out in others. Mascara trails under my eyes to my chin, and a sheet mark is etched from my temple through my left eyebrow from sleeping on my side.
I feel a wave of embarrassment and then check myself. Why does it matter how I look? I’m his hostage. He should have to see me like this the entire time. He should know exactly what he’s done to me. Then again, I know I’ll feel better if I get cleaned up.
I dig in a drawer and find a hairbrush, the feel of it running through my shoulder-length tresses positively heavenly. I use the hand soap to wash my face. It’s painful and slow, but I do it. When I’m done, I still have dark circles under my eyes. I don’t look pretty by any means. But I feel more like myself. Now if I only had a?—
“There’s an extra toothbrush in the drawer,” he says through the door.
I bristle. How did he know I was thinking about my teeth?
“I heard the water running. Thought you might want to clean up.”
Oh. Of course.
Slowly I open the opposite drawer from where I found the hairbrush and find a toothbrush still in its box and a small tube of toothpaste. I brush my teeth quickly but thoroughly. When I’m finished, I open the door to find the Viking standing right outside.
“You’re welcome,” he says gruffly.
“If you expect me to thank you for the simplest accommodations when you are the entire reason I need them, you’ve got another thing coming! ”
“Another think coming.”
“What?” I sneer.
“The expression is another think coming. Not another thing. Aren’t you an author?”
“Oh, fuck off.”
The corner of his mouth twitches, and I get the helpless-kitten feeling again before he sweeps me into his arms like I weigh nothing and carries me back to the bed, propping me up on a bunch of stacked pillows. He grabs the stuffed dragon from the other side of the mattress and tucks him into my side.
“How’s that?” he asks, adjusting me.
I give him the finger.
With a huff, he plants his hands on his hips. I’m getting under his skin, and the thought gives me an unexpected thrill. I want to punish him for what he’s done to me, and I find that although my body is in pure fibro hell, my mind is unusually clear. But there’s something more. Deep down, I sense he’s safe. He won’t hurt me. Maybe he can’t. Taking out my pain and frustration on him is as easy as breathing and surprisingly distracts me from the pain.
“I’m going to make us something to eat. Do you have any allergies or foods you just can’t stand?” he asks.
“What, no bread and water? No gruel? What kind of prison is this?”
“Fucking pain in the ass,” he murmurs under his breath. He heads for the door. “Fine, you’ll get what you get.”
“Wait!”
He glances back at me .
“When am I getting out of here? Did you get what you wanted from Roman?”
He frowns, his gaze drifting away again. “I’m working on it.”
“He didn’t kill that woman. You’ve made a mistake.”
He slips out the door, and this time he leaves it open.
I should get up. The door is open. If nothing else, I should scope out the place. See what I’m up against. Make a plan to escape. But the thought of moving makes my body ache. I hug the stuffed dragon to my chest, resting my chin on its plush head. He’s obnoxiously cute, rose gold with movable legs and a sweet face. I decide when I leave here, I’m taking him with me. I close my eyes. Tomorrow. I’ll worry about escaping tomorrow.
The sound of pans and utensils clanking together somewhere in the house wakes me sometime later, and then the scent of bacon wafts into my room. My stomach grumbles. Can the Viking cook? I smell cinnamon. I adjust myself on the pillows. My mouth is watering.
He appears in the door with a bed tray and places it over my lap. The sight of what he’s made for me almost makes me cry. A Dutch apple pancake, lightly sprinkled with powdered sugar and cinnamon, piping hot and steaming in a mini cast-iron skillet. Four slices of perfectly crisp bacon crisscross a side plate, neighbored by coffee with a tiny silver pitcher of cream. Juice that looks like he squeezed the oranges himself finishes off the meal.
I adjust myself higher on the pillows and wince. My stomach is growling, but lifting my arms to feed myself is going to be a chore. Lo and behold, the Viking grabs the extra pillow and shoves it behind me, then starts cutting up my pancake. My face heats. Is there anything more humiliating than having a man who looks like him feed me like a child?
I push the unwelcome feeling aside. Why do I care? He’s a criminal. My kidnapper. Why do I have to keep reminding myself of that?
“Open,” he commands.
I’m too hungry to put up a fight. I open my mouth, and he shovels in a bite. “Oh my fucking God,” I blabber as I chew the literally best food I’ve ever tasted in my life. “Did you just make this?”
His answering grin makes me ashamed to have forgotten my disgruntled-prisoner routine. Fuck, I’m weak. My body needs food. I open my mouth and let him feed me another bite.
“I’m a professional chef. The least I can do is make sure you eat well while you’re here.”
“A chef? Wait, wait, wait.” I rub my head, trying to sort out what I remember about the day he took me. “You had wings.”
“I do.”
“And we traveled…. You flew with me in your arms. You’re not human.”
He shakes his head and feeds me another bite. “Nope. Not human. The wings are real—I just keep them tucked away when I’m not using them. It’s easier that way.”
“You called yourself a dragon.” I search his face. This isn’t a joke. It isn’t an elaborate con.
“Are we going to replay our entire conversation?” He studies me, one of his eyebrows lifting. “You really don’t know anything about the Saint’s Order or dragons, do you? You were marrying Roman Cifarelli, the son of the grandmaster himself, but had no idea who he really is?”
I shrug. “Honestly, I think you’ve got the wrong guy. Roman is too busy running his companies to be involved in a secret society. You are definitely wrong about him being in any way involved with killing Lucy Vale. He was in the south of France when she was murdered.”
“He was with you? Physically with you at four a.m.—the time she was murdered?” he asks through his teeth like the very thought disgusts him.
I want to tell him yes, but again, I find I can’t lie to him. “Uh, well, no. Actually, he was working. I hadn’t seen him in two days.”
He scoffs and cuts another bite of pancake. “I don’t have the wrong guy.”
Why couldn’t I just say I was with him? Now he’s convinced Roman’s involved. “Or maybe you’re just some whacko, genetic freak who’s trying to shake him down for a payday.”
A growl reverberates through the room, through me, and it’s like when you hear a bird sing and realize the loudest sound is coming from the tiniest bird body. The growl resonates, much bigger than a man of his size should be able to produce while perched at the end of my bed. Louder than a lion’s roar. It’s a growl that speaks to that same primordial thing in me that responded to him before. I may not have ever heard of dragons, but I know in that moment that he’s dangerous. I gulp and realize I’ve unconsciously pressed myself into the pillows, putting room between us .
He holds out another bite of pancake. “I’m not going to hurt you. But this is not about money. I have plenty of money. More than I could ever spend.”
I eat the bite. “So, like, dragons are just living among us? You’re a chef. Are there dragon doctors? Lawyers? Teachers?”
He redirects his attention to my pancake. “Yup. And now you’re in on the secret. How’s it feel to know that battle-ax of an eighth-grade teacher you had in middle school might have actually been a dragon?”
I slowly reach for a slice of bacon, picturing the nun who taught me algebra. “Actually, that would explain some things.
“Cream or sugar?” he asks, pointing at the coffee.
“Just cream.”
He pours in the perfect amount, which is weird because I prefer just a splash and normally people overpour. I bring it to my lips and take a long sip. He helps me place the mug back on my tray. “So if it’s not money you’re after, what do you want from Roman exactly?”
“Not him actually. Stefan. The grandmaster. I want Stefan to meet with me to discuss Lucy’s murder. She was one of us, a dragon hybrid.”
“A what?”
“A hybrid. Her father was a dragon. Mother was a human. She was murdered in a public place in violation of our peace accord. I want him to either claim responsibility for it or help us find the person responsible.”
My eyes narrow even further. “What makes you so sure this order is even responsible? I heard that the police in Paris are blaming satanists based on the inscription. ”
“The inscription, written in blood above her head, was Astra inclinant, sed non obligant .”
“The stars guide us, they do not bind us.”
“You’re familiar with it?” It’s his turn to narrow his eyes.
“I’m a writer. It’s a famous quote.”
“And inscribed on your fiancé’s ring.”
I give him a confused look.
“Big platinum number with a Saint George Cross on the face?”
I feel my face grow cold. I know the ring he means, although I don’t remember any inscription. Roman told me it was a class ring for a British boarding school. “It’s a common quote,” I mutter.
“It’s the motto of the Saint’s Order, a secret society sworn to kill dragons.”
“Kill you?” I laugh. “Who would try to kill you? You’re the size of a house.”
The corner of his mouth twitches as if that amuses him. “You watched Roman shoot at us with a crossbow. Those weren’t toy bolts.”
I open my mouth but can think of no response to that. Instead, I fill it with another piece of bacon. “So you are suggesting to me that Roman is a member of a secret society.”
“He’s the son of the grandmaster. A VIP of the Order.”
I snort and shake my head. “There has to be another explanation.”
Connor huffs. “That was a statement, not a question. How well do you even know this guy? ”
My shoulders hunch defensively. “Well enough to marry him.”
“But not well enough to know he is part of a secret society formed to kill or enslave dragonkind.”
I take another swig of coffee. “You have to be mistaken. Secret societies are my specialty. I think I would have noticed?—”
“Right,” Connor drawls. “Because you write those, uh…”
“Alex Rogue thrillers. About a character who solves murders committed by cults and secret societies.” I take another sip. “Well, I used to. Not writing much lately , obviously, what with the engagement and wedding. I’ve been busy. And now this.” I slide my hand through the air, indicating my general circumstances, then thumb the stupidly large engagement ring on my finger.
His entire demeanor changes, his smile fading and his presence becoming like a darkening storm gathering above me. I set the coffee down and lean deeper into the pillows. I don’t feel like I’m in danger with him, but something I’ve said has definitely pissed him off.
“How long have you known Roman?” His timbre is low and commanding again.
Do I admit that it’s only been a month? That our relationship was never physical? For some reason, I don’t want to talk to this… dragon about Roman. It’s none of his business anyway. I shouldn’t be cooperating. “I need to rest.”
“Never mind.” Lightness is back in his eyes, as if the storm has passed. “None of my business.”
I hold up a hand when he tries to feed me another bite. “If I eat any more, I’ll burst.” I feel wasteful. There’s enough left for two more people.
He cuts another bite and feeds himself, using the same fork he used to feed me. I guess he’s not worried about germs. Another bite and his eyes flick up to mine. Slowly, meticulously, he finishes everything left on the tray, licking the remaining syrup off the tines of the fork with the flat of his tongue.
Everything south of my bottom rib clenches, and my brain gives me a very vivid fantasy of that tongue between my legs.
Ugh, why did he have to be my kidnapper? Even racked with pain, my body knows that being with this man would be a religious experience. I squeeze my eyes shut against the rogue thought. I’m engaged to Roman. I’m sure Roman will be perfectly acceptable in bed. I try to picture it. I can’t.
Connor flashes me an insouciant grin and lifts the tray from my lap. “Rest. I’ll wake you when it’s time to take your next pill.”