Jet
1213 Words
(One Month Ago)
Knuckles, gliding across my cheek. “Wake up.”
It was a deep voice. Unfamiliar.
I could feel them stroking my hair, my face pressed against something warm, comfy—“Violet.”
When my eyes opened, I found myself staring up into dark eyes.
So dark, almost obsidian, his black curls falling across his forehead, his shaggy locks and deeply tanned skin only accentuating his sharp jaw line. “Violet.” My hand shifted to his where it was resting at his cheek, eyes widening as I realized my head was resting on his lap. He must’ve felt my panic because when I tried to sit up, his hand slipped to my throat, easily holding me down. My lips parted, to argue, to tell him to let me go, but his eyes narrowed and I was suddenly aware of our difference in stature. Large, muscular—his forearm was probably almost the size of my head where I was gripping it—he was powerfully built, larger than even Zechariah. “She told me you’d be upset.”
“She—”
“The ember eyed version of you,” he whispered, stroking my hair some more.
I flinched, pursing my lips. “Let me up.”
He hummed. It was . . . almost familiar. Haunting.
My stomach tightened as I thought about another hum, softer, soothing—Cronan.
I went to sit up, to struggle but his grip my throat tightened just a fraction, his other hand tangling in my hair. It wasn’t . . . painful. He wasn’t hurting me but—staring up at him, I took in the small smile playing on his lips. “She was so understanding, that one. She told me you’d be another story.” His hand slipped southward, toward my chest and I flinched, gripping his wrist, wishing he’d let go of my hair. Let me go. “You’re very beautiful.”
His voice sent a shiver through me as I realized the threat he posed. The danger I was in.
“Where am I?” I whispered, eyes flickering about the room.
A couch nestled to one room, a bar to the other—“My personal jet.”
Jet? A plane? “Where are you taking me?” I whispered, horror building in my chest as his hand slipped between my breasts, palming my stomach.
“Home, love.” He rubbed my belly and I realized quickly that he . . . knew. About the baby. The way he was caressing my stomach—it was almost territorial.
“I feel nauseas.” A lie. A good one. If he knows I’m pregnant, I’d use it to my advantage. “Please let me sit up.”
He let go of my hair and I sat upright quickly, scooting a bit away from him.
Leaning back against the couch, dark eyes focused on me, the man reached out to tug at my hair, knuckle gliding down my throat. The hunger in his gaze made me duck my head, trying to avoid him. “It’s so interesting that you don’t remember.”
“Remember what?” I felt confused, anxious.
He chuckled. “You’re incredibly beautiful, Violet. I don’t particularly care for bashful women but I’ve already met the fire in you.”
“I’m taken.” It was abrupt, automatic. “Cronan Thanisius—"
“Yes, yes.” Twirling my hair, he was still smiling, unperturbed by the name I’d dropped.
“We’re bonded,” I said, scooting further away from him.
His hand gripped my knee, pulling me back to his side, closing the distance I was creating. “Mhm.”
“And linked,” I insisted, trying to explain.
“You haven’t even asked.”
Pushing at his hand, to stop him from touching me, I mumbled, “What?”
“My name.”
Turning, I found myself nose to nose with him.
His nostrils flared.
Dark eyes turning a deep silver.
“My title.”
His nails bit into my thigh.
Dipping even loser, closer, I turned my cheek to him and he chuckled.
Running his nose along my cheek, toward my ear—“I own you, dear sister.”
Sister.
“Sister?” My voice was hushed, eyes flickering up to his.
So close. Calm. He ran his hand through my hair again, twirling it absently.
“Sister?” I whispered again. “What do you—”
“In due time,” he breathed, slipping his thumb over my bottom lip.
It wasn’t brotherly—the way he was looking at me, touching me. “Are we . . . how?”
“Your pheromones are suffocating.” Scrunching his nose, he sat back against the couch. “It’s insane to think that you and I might share the same blood.”
“Did my father . . .?”
He scoffed. “I am of no relation to Cliff Blackwell.”
“But then—”
“And neither are you,” the man said matter-of-factly. Almost as if he’d said it as an afterthought and hadn’t just dropped an absolute bomb on me.
“Cliff is my father.” The defensiveness of the statement was biting.
“He raised you,” the man nodded, giving a shrug. “He wasn’t the donor though.”
Glaring at him, I hissed, “Who are you to tell me about my own father?”
The man gave a wry smile, eyes flickering over me, taking in my heated gaze. “Hm. Incredible really.” When he reached for me again, to touch me, I jerked backwards, jumping to my feet, glaring as viciously as I could muster. A small smile tugged his lips upward. “There it is. That fire.”
“Where are you taking me?!” My voice was deeper, authoritative.
“Home, love. The Rosario estate.”
Rosario? “Where?”
“Italy, mio coure.”
Italy? Stumbling a step backwards, I looked around, realizing I was in a really bad situation. I didn’t even have a passport to get back home. How would I get back home?
“Xavier.”
Pressing my hand to my mouth, I felt the panic coming.
I might pass out.
“Xavier Rosario.”
“What?” I snapped, turning to find him standing close to me, over me.
“My name,” he breathed, moving to caress my cheek.
I slapped his hand away. “I don’t care about your name.” Can’t he see how upset I am?
When his hand caught my chin, craning my neck back, I had to go to my tip toes, hand gripping his wrist as I glared up into silver eyes. “You should care about your owners’ name and title, love.” Smirking, gently setting me back to my feet, he whispered, “I’m all you have now.”
- Writer
