Chapter Two - Captive of the Heir

Cassian’s face stayed the same, as he threw the order to his men.

“Don’t let her leave.”

Fuck.

Boots moved quickly and hands closed around me as a hood is pulled over my head.

Plastic cuffs bite into my wrists and a palm settles at the back of my neck, firm and claiming, steering me to move like I was somebody’s fucking pet.

“I’m billing extra for this bullshit,” I hiss, because my mouth likes to do the fighting for me when the rest of me cannot.

“You can invoice me from the safehouse,” Cassian replies. It sounds more like a contract, not a threat.

The hood smells like gunpowder and cheap cologne. I breathe shallow and try not to imagine whoever wore it last and what bodily fluids might cover the material.

Hands run over me, brisk and practiced, over the waist, thighs, and ankles. All impersonal, efficient movements, the practiced sweep of men who do this for a living.

Still, I can feel my cheeks heat up with the close contact from unfamiliar men and I hate that my body responds with shivers not quite fear, not quite pleasure but a dangerous mix of both.

I had grown up with worse hands on my skin. The bastard daughter of a mafia king, half-claimed and half-rejected in rooms that smelled of depravity. You learn to smile when men search you for weapons, because sometimes the best weapon is you and that sweet spot between your legs that all men crave a taste of.

The only problem is, now my body remembered the pleasure that usually came after hands touched me this way, and I despised it.

“She’s clear,” one of them says.

“Move her then.”

The walk to the elevator is guided by a hand that covers the crown of my head as I’m guided forward. They don’t handle me roughly, it’s more polite and controlling, the kind of touch that pretends to protect while it cages you under its own ruleset.

My body listens before my mind consents.

“Head down,” Cassian murmurs, close enough that his breath grazes my ear and causes a pleasurable shiver to roll down my spine.

Fucking prick.

The doors close and gravity drops. I try to count floors by timing itby my heart beats, but its racing so rapidly I quickly give up that idea.

Then the smell of the garage air pushes through the fabric. It’s cold, damp, and stale with the stench of old exhaust fumes. Doors grind open and I am moved again, into the back of a vehicle and I feel leather under my thigh as solid shoulders box me in either side. A seatbelt slides across my chest and I snort at the irony.

It wasn’t my safety that they were worried about, it was containing me.

He gets in last...I feel it as the aura in the car changes.

“Drive,” Cassian says, and we start to move.

“Any injuries?” someone asks from the front.

“Not yet,” he answers, and the word ‘yet’ slides cold along my spine.

A phone buzzes and he answers coolly.

“No, seal the floor. Keep him breathing. Basement, yes. She is with me.” He answers in clipped sentences before laughing coldly, “Yes. Useful.”

It sounds suspiciously like that motherfucker is talking about me, and calling me useful ignites a deep rage inside of me. I am nobody's tool.

The car tilts into a turn and his knee touches mine. He doesn’t bother to move it and neither do I. I leave it there defiantly, and hope that he understands that he does not scare me in the slightest.

I’ve eaten bigger men than him for breakfast…not the half-wolf half-man though. Even I will admit that shit was terrifying. I would have moved my leg from his in a heartbeat.

We stop and doors open as his hand finds my shoulder and pulls m eout, steady and deliberate.

“Out.,” he says and I stand obediently.

A keypad chirps and a door opens noisily before I am led forward. The atmosphere in here is different, a deathly quiet silence as the air conditioning hums in the background.

Then, the hood lifts.

Thick rugs cover the dark wood floor and the lamps in here shine brightly around the edges. I don’t see any windows.

Nice. No obvious escape route from in here then. Smart fuckers.

They tether me to a ring in the stainless steel table that looks expensive. A polite prison to put you at ease.

Cassian shrugs out of his jacket and rolls his sleeves up. There is a smear of someone else’s blood on his cuff and he doesn’t seem to notice, or he does and he just doesn’t care.

His gaze lands on me and stays, his eyes boring into me like he can read the secrets to my soul. Heavy and curious, possessive almost.

“Comfortable?” He asks without really caring about the answer. His eyes don’t soften.

“Yeah dude, Luxuriantly so.” I snort even though my throat is so dry that it aches.

He pours water and sets the glass just far enough away from me that the chain makes me reach. He watches the reach and I see it as he catalogues the image in his mind of me bent over the table with the sound of my breath and the stubborn set of my mouth.

Great. Maybe I can charm my way out of this one as well, if my mouth doesn’t et me into anymore trouble.

“Name.”

“Cleaner.”

One brow lifts. “Try again.”

Shit.

“Salomé.”

He smiles and repeats it as though my name is made of pure sin.

“Who sent the package, Salomé.”

“It’s a bit rude to read return addresses. I just deliver.” I shrug.

“Who hired you.”

“A voice on a burner phone..” I smirk up at him.

“What route did you take into the building.”

“The blind side.”

“How do you know where there’s no cameras?” He asked, his eyes twitching slightly.

“Trade secret.”I sighed as I leaned back in the chair and stared up at him insolently.

He doesn’t sit in the chair opposite me, instead, he circles me. Slowly, with measured steps, and patient, as if he knew that he would get what the wanted in the end without a doubt. Every time I angle myself away from him, he steps into the space I try to make. He is testing how close he can get before I flinch.

I don’t flinch, and I don’t intend to either..until something fucked that plan right up.