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 overhead bulb, 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.”
Callum didn’t let go, but he yanked me upright, forcing me to my knees. The silver dug deeper, and I bit back a scream. The world spun for a moment; I retched dryly, nothing left to vomit.
“Welcome back, Savannah.” My father’s words were perfectly measured, as though I were a misbehaving student in his office. “Your surprise at being here is disappointing. You must have known it would come to this.”
I didn’t respond. I stared at the floor, willing the nausea to subside.
Dominic kicked a box over to me. It landed with a hollow thunk. “Drink,” he said. His accent was unmistakable—Midwestern, polished, predatory. He didn’t look at me as he spoke. “Or die of dehydration. Makes no difference to me, but it’s not the outcome your father wants.”
I ignored the box, ignored the burn of thirst in my throat. I’d been in worse situations. I could outlast them, if not in strength, then in spite.
My father cleared his throat, the sound slicing through the gloom. “We’re two hours out from Chicago. Dominic is being gracious enough to host us until the council hearing.”
I looked up, letting hatred burn through the fog. “Council?”
He smiled. “There are protocols for these things, darling. Your… mating, for example.”
He said it like a slur.
I shook my head, just enough to make the world tilt. “You’re wasting your time. As you said, I’m already mated. The bond is real.”
Dominic’s face flickered with something ugly—jealousy or rage or both.
He knelt down to my level, close enough I could see the sheen of sweat on his upper lip.
“You think he’ll come for you?” he whispered.
“You think that mongrel will survive two hours with my men waiting at O’Hare?
” His hand shot out and caught my jaw, squeezing until my teeth ground together.
“You belong to me. Your father made a deal. That’s how these things work. ”
“You’re going to hell,” I said, though the words slurred out more like a moan.
He grinned, then let go, letting my head snap forward.
Callum circled behind me, his boots scraping the deck.
“Don’t bother. She’s got nothing left to fight for.
” He bent low to my ear, his breath hot and venomous.
“They’re going to rip that mate mark off your neck, you know.
Maybe even skin it. Wouldn’t that be something?
Maybe Dominic will let me keep it as a souvenir. ”
I turned my face away, trying not to breathe.
My father watched this with an expression of faint boredom. He drummed his fingers on his knee. “You are here to listen, Savannah. That’s all that’s required. If you can manage not to embarrass yourself for two days, I might even consider some leniency.”
He paused, then added, “Otherwise, your life will be very, very short.”
Dominic stood and dusted off his hands. “She’ll cooperate, Declan. She doesn’t have a choice.”
I kept my mouth shut. I’d learned in the labs that silence is sometimes all you can weaponize.
Callum was less patient. He grabbed my chin, twisting it so my eyes met his. “Did you hear what father said?”
I stared at him with all the hate I could summon. “Loud and clear.”
He slapped me, a backhand across the cheek that made my ears ring. “Show some respect.”
I spat blood onto his boots. “Fuck you.”
Dominic laughed. “She’s spirited. I like that.” He squatted again, getting in my face, his voice low and smooth. “You’ll learn to like it, too. Eventually.”
The three of them conferred as if I were nothing but cargo, a feral animal they had to restrain until its new owner arrived.
They spoke in code about “the subject,” “the council session,” “the protocol for removal.” It was obvious none of them considered me a person any longer.
Just a liability, a body to be exchanged for power and face-saving.
When they thought I wasn’t listening, my father let his true feelings bleed through.
“She’s a disgrace,” he said. “But if the bond is real, it will be dealt with. If not, we’ll take care of her. Either way, Dominic gets what he wants.”
Dominic’s voice was cold as the hold. “I don’t want damaged goods. She’ll behave, or I’ll have Callum teach her how.”
Callum snickered. “Gladly.”
The plane rocked through another pocket of turbulence, and my chains pulled tighter. I squeezed my eyes shut, praying for the impact that might end it all.
It never came.
Instead, my father’s boots crossed the deck. He knelt, a parody of paternal concern, and stroked a strand of hair from my face. The gesture made my skin crawl.
“Don’t be foolish, Savannah,” he said softly. “You know how this ends. I don’t want to see you hurt. But I will do what must be done.”
I let my head sag; the drugs pulling me under. I dreamed of Menace—his hands, his voice, the way he said my name—and woke up crying, the tears cutting clean tracks down my blood-streaked cheeks.
Callum saw and sneered. “Still pining for your hero? Cute. Bet he’s already dead.”