I guided her from the dismal excuse of a bar, through the terminal, and past security. Her arm stayed looped with mine, following submissively, obediently—like a good pet. Her feet glided in flat shoes, her dark eyes glazed but aware.

It’d been too easy. Both breaking my word and dissolving the tablet into her drink. I said I wouldn’t kidnap or drug her—that was before she showed some backbone in the coffee shop, and had the fucking audacity to ask me for something.

Sex? She willingly wanted some sort of meaningless connection with me? That pissed me off. I’d looked forward to taking that from her. The will. The desire. Stripping her of the choice before taking what she didn’t want to give.

You still can.

I just had some work ahead of me. I’d been too soft. Too gentile. It was time to make my prey fully understand the nightmare she’d walked into and put a stop to the stupid fantasises she entertained.

And I couldn’t think about her brother without wanting to fucking punch something. I shouldn’t have been so lenient. I didn’t care who she talked to as long as she remained mine to torment. But him—he could ruin everything. The Weaver men had been a constant pain in the arse since the Hawks started taking their women.

War had broken out. Lives were lost on both sides.

But we won. And would continue to win, because they were pussies and we were strong.

Nila didn’t say a word as I guided her down the airbridge and onto the plane. To an outsider she looked perfectly normal. Perhaps a little tired and spaced out, but content and not in any way distressed.

That was the wonder of this particular drug.

Externally, she acted the perfect part. Internally, I had no idea, nor cared how she felt. It wasn’t my problem if she saw everything that happened. Her mind was unhindered, but all motor control was stolen. And there was nothing she could do about it. She dealt with vertigo on a daily basis—this was no different. I’d taken her ability with the help of a simple chemical. In fact, I was kinder than vertigo, because I gave her something to hold onto.

Patting her hand that rested on my forearm, I guided her into business class. Pointing at the window seat, I waited till she sat heavily, then buckled her in. Her breathing remained low and regular, but when I sat beside her, took her hand, and guided her face to mine, I saw the truth.

She knew.

Everything.

Perfect. It’s time to begin.

Brushing black hair from her neck, I whispered, “I should warn you of something.” Running my fingers down the silky strands, I moved closer so I could breathe the threat. Silence was terrifying. Whispers petrifying. But barely spoken threats were the worst.

“Be afraid of me, Ms. Weaver. Be afraid because your life is now mine and I’m the master of everything that happens to you. But know this…it’s not just me you’ll have to fear.”

Her chest continued to rise and fall, no hiccup or flinch. But her eyes fought against the glass of unwilling intoxication, struggling to break the surface and no longer drown.

“There are others. Many others who have the right to help me ensure the debt is fully repaid. Ultimately they have to ask permission from me. But there are exceptions to every rule.”

Settling back into the leather seat, I smiled. “Remember what I told you and you might survive.”

My mouth said one thing, my eyes another.

Remember that and you’ll still die.

She heard the truth as well as my lie. Her fingers twitched, mouth parted, but the drugs were stronger than her terror.

She was inert while inside she was screaming.

The silence was a symphony to my ears.

THE BLACK SUV that I’d been stuffed into at the airport rolled to a stop beneath a humongous archway. A gatehouse, so typical of large wealthy estates in England, soared above us. Through the glass roof of the car, I made out the same crest that emblazed the door panels of the vehicle I sat in. The up lighting made it glow like a rare monument—an over emblazed welcome doormat like so many country manors had in this historically rich country.

A huge filigree design with four hawks circling a nest of fallen women welcomed, complete with a large diamond glinting in the centre. It screamed of hunting and violence and winning.

I would’ve shuddered if I had the ability to move. How many of the fallen women lived through what I was about to? How many survived?

None of them.

I knew that now. I knew what my future held.

I’d screamed and raged and howled beside Jethro on the plane. My throat bled from shouting. My heart burst from begging. But he hadn’t heard a whimper, because of the magic he’d used to subdue me.

The journey had torn my heart into shreds. Every step I took, I battled to break whatever spell he’d placed me under. Every breath I took, I fought to speak.

If I had the power of speech, I would’ve screamed that I had a bomb. I would’ve taken detainment and a full body strip search to flee from Jethro’s undeniable, possessive hold.

My entire undoing and decimation was done in utter silence. And the bastard just sat there, holding my hand, nodding at the air-hostess when she said what an elegant couple we were.

He let me dissolve into misery. He lapped up my unshed tears, and I’d seen a glimpse of the monster I’d given my life to. Thousands of feet above the earth, I’d witnessed the cold gentleman mellow into something resembling a happy lover. Someone who’d won and got their way.

“Welcome home, Ms. Weaver,” Jethro whispered against my ear.

I tried to cringe from his mouth, to huddle against the door, but the damn drug kept me locked beside him.

I blinked, inwardly sobbing, outwardly a perfect porcelain doll.

Everything had been stolen. My sense of touch, ability to speak, muscles needed to run.

A man in his early twenties appeared from a large pillar of the archway. Manifesting from the dark like a ghoul on Halloween. Jethro stiffened.

The new arrival opened the front door, sliding into the seat and nodding at the elderly man driving us. “Clive.”

The driver nodded in return, gripping the gear stick with an arthritic hand, and engaging the car once again. He hadn’t said a word since picking us up at Heathrow. Perhaps he doesn’t have a tongue? Jethro and his family probably ripped it out to protect their sadistic secrets.

We inched forward, trading the soft lighting of a hawk engraved logo for the deep darkness of forest. I stared out the window into pitch black. From Italy to England, from night to night. The engine purred, following a quaint road slicing through dense woodland.