Chapter 7

CHAPTER SEVEN

Satin let me lead the way, and we found our driver thoughtfully smoking outside the car. “Five men just went in that house,” he said, then looked at me, and spotted the blood on my chest that Satin had missed. “I take it they will not be coming out?”

“The less you know, the better,” she said, as she slid into the backseat of the car.

I got in on my side, and was doing my best not to bleed on anything expensive. The driver handed me back a handkerchief of dubious provenance, but bleeding beggars could not be bleeding choosers, and I wedged it beneath my elbow.

We drove back to the tarmac in silence, me feeling antsy, still flooded with adrenaline from the evening’s activities, and her staring straight ahead.

I wondered what was going on inside her mind, since she couldn’t see—was all that free time just filled up with thinking?

If so, no wonder she’d been so hellbent on revenge.

I had no idea if she’d managed it though—she’d had a long moment with the egg alone, behind the throne, but I couldn’t ask her until we were back inside the safety of the jet.

The staircase to the jet was already extended, and one of the pilots was up above, bundled up and waiting for us. Satin took my arm until I could put her hand on the safety of the stair railing, and the second she reached the top stair she told the pilot, “I’d like to depart. And—we may be in the air for quite some time. Please sleep in shifts.”

“Of course, Miss Satin,” he said, hauling the stairs up and the doors to the jet closed before locking himself up front again.

“That doesn’t sound safe,” I said, following her back to the comfortable leather seats in the aisle.

“It’s not. But for the most part, my enemies are on the ground, and don’t have fighter jets. So it’s safer for me to be in the sky.”

“But can’t they trace you? Flight plans and all that?”

“ADSB data is notoriously unreliable—and it’s not unusual for private craft to turn their transponders off over conflict zones,” she said, as she flung her fur coat across a chair before falling into the chair beside it. She seemed back in her element now and I realized the version of her that I’d seen with Roskov, all soft and teary-eyed, had been too perfect.

Too precise.

“How much of that was real?”

She gave a low chuckle, before stretching out. “Enough for normal men.”

“And did you manage to complete your mission?”

“I did,” she said, heaving a pleased seeming sigh. “Roskov will have the egg in a vault at his bank by dawn—which is where a bank manager known to my people will get the microchip and forward the information on it on.”

I squinted at her, dabbing at myself with the handkerchief under my elbow. I’d stopped bleeding, but my fur was sticky, and I could’ve probably used some stitches. “Pardon me for questioning, but I find it hard to believe that there’s a journalist in Russia who’s going to be rewarded for reporting your claims.”

“As well you should—but my bank manager’s reporting it to London, and trust me, Scotland Yard will be far, far more gravely concerned,” she said, stroking her hand repeatedly against the nearby mink.

“Then why didn’t you just go to London?”

“Because I didn’t have a reason to go there—which meant that my enemies in London would’ve been expecting me, if I took a sudden detour. And besides, old KGB data routes are just as good.”

I wasn’t sure which was hotter—watching her pet fur, or listening to her be self-assured. All I knew was that after she went to bed, I was going to have to jerk off three times before I even thought of sleeping, and it still might not be enough.

“But—enough crowing about tonight. I need to get this dress off,” she said, standing up and turning away from me to lift her hair. “Can you help? Getting into it by myself was murder.”

I stood up with a soft grunt from the sharp pain in my side. I made sure to stay far enough behind her that she wouldn’t get tapped by my dick’s attempts to free itself, then I took hold of the top of her zipper between my blunt thumb and forefinger, slowly pulling it down.

The black fabric opened, revealing a deep V of creamy white skin, creating a path I wanted to lick, pointing down to places I wanted to visit.

“Much better,” she said, reaching up to tug away her collar, letting her hair drop.

I stepped far enough back that I’d be safe if my dick broke its chain.

“Good night, Aceon,” she said, looking over her shoulder, and I was so stunned by the moment I almost forgot to ask?—

“Hey, before you go—where’s this jet’s med kit?” I didn’t want to use the supplies inside my duffle bag, in case I needed them later.

She turned around to gasp. “Why?” and then her jaw dropped in horror. “Ace—were you injured?”

I was pretty sure that was the first time she’d said my name. “No. Not really. I mean—it’s not bad, just annoying?—”

“What? Where?” she demanded, flying up the aisle.

I stepped back, because there was still a six inch no-go zone in front of me, where my hard on was pushing out my kilt.

“Just a small cut. I’m really looking for suture stuff, if you have any.”

She appeared aghast, and then pointed up to one of the latches above. “There should be a kit up there.”

“Great. Thanks,” I said, turning around quickly, to open the berth and pull it down. There was a red duffle bag with a little bit of everything in it. “I’ll keep track of what I use, so you can have them replace it,” I told her, pulling out some alcohol, gauze, and a flat pack of Ethilon sutures in gauges fit for monster hides, complete with a curved needle. “This is perfect,” I assured her, but that didn’t stop her from hovering.

“Let me help?”

Her concern was as embarrassing as it was charming. “Not to make you feel bad, but, how?”

I watched her bite her lower lip, as she offered her hand out. “I don’t know.”

“I’m fine,” I said, but I couldn’t resist the chance to take it. And when she stepped closer, I let her, bringing her hand to the blood-soaked fur by the cut on me. “See? It’s mostly dry now. I wouldn’t even suture it, if we weren’t going into action again—but I don’t want to start leaving behind DNA if I can help it.”

Her fingertips tamped against the slightly crusted fur, as she licked her lips. “And…you’re not worried about DNA from shedding?” she teased.

“Not anymore than you are,” I said, jerking my chin at her hair. “I mean—with your hair and all, you know?”

“I gathered,” she said, giving me a slight smile. “Still though. Before you close yourself up—you should get clean.”

I didn’t disagree—although I wasn’t looking forward to pouring alcohol over a cut on my body.

“There’s a shower in my bathroom, in the back. You should use it.”

I recoiled. “I couldn’t,” I said, as her hands patted me down, sending bolts of electricity through me every place they touched—until she found my hand and pulled.

“You can.”

“No—I’ll definitely shed in there. And your cleaners will not be prepared for it.”

Her brows furrowed and she gave a loud snort. “Do you know how many extensions I’ve had in my hair before? Trust me—they’re used to it,” she said, still pulling.

I planted my hooves, letting her hand tug at mine, just to test her resolve. She didn’t let go.

So I did what any other self-respecting bodyguard would do—I followed orders.