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A jet stood outside the hangar. Several cars and people occupied a small carpark.
"Fuck," I said under my breath. I assumed Asshole would take us somewhere in Sydney. That was a big enough haystack to find two needles in. Out of Sydney could mean anywhere in Australia, or even another country.
Hells, he might be planning to make us skydive once we were over the harbour—without a parachute.
Ben's hand tightened on mine.
I turned back toward him questioningly. "Don't like flying?"
He curled his lip, but didn't take his eyes off the window. "Don't like witches."
I didn't know which one of the people standing waiting was a witch, but if he said one of them was, I believed him. His hatred of them was well known. He was orphaned young and raised by witches who had little love for shifters. I didn't blame him for his bitterness. After Dagen's father murdered my parents, I was raised by his aunt. Helen Dagen was as nasty a piece of work as her brother. Having her killed was a pleasure.
"Trust Alistair to be working with witches," I said. I already knew that about him. He was the one who left the set of magic-filled stones at Silas Wheeler's garage.
Ben turned toward me and frowned. "I guess we know what the meaning of the dampening stone was."
Dampening stones stopped a witch from using magic. In this case, it was a message to say he'd found a way to stop us from shifting.
I remembered the last stone and shuddered. Bonding stone. If that was infused with magic, then touched me and one of Dagen's men, or Dagen himself, spilled their cum inside me, it would form an empathic bond between us. The idea of that kind of link with him was even more sickening than the idea of him touching me in the first place.
Judging by the fierce expression on Ben's face, he was thinking the same thing. And was determined not to let it happen.
I appreciated the sentiment and knew he'd die for me, but I preferred not to think too much about it. I would deal with it if and when the time came.
The SUV pulled up near the plane. People swarmed around it, mostly men in black suits. A woman in blue jeans and a cat t-shirt strode along behind them like she owned the airfield. The witch, I assumed.
Ben looked like he desperately wanted to shift and tear her head off, literally.
"Someone you know?" I asked softly. I unwound my hand from his before anyone saw.
"Yeah. Irina." He didn't elaborate. I didn't ask him to. There would be time for that later.
"Get them," Dagen ordered. He opened his own door and moved away from the SUV.
"Gods forbid he got his hands dirty," I said sarcastically.
"Can you stand?" Ben's brow corrugated with concern.
"Not without help," I admitted. "I think I'm about to get some."
One of Asshole's men opened the door and leaned in to grab me. I let him pull me up and out. I almost fell, but another goon moved to the other side of me and slipped an arm under mine.
I looked at him sharply, wanting to tell him to fuck off, but I would have face planted on the ground without help. Being naked in front of about thirty men who loathed me because of what I had done, or who I was, or both, was bad enough. As a shifter, being naked didn't bother me as much as it might bother others, but vulnerability—that bothered me a lot.
Alistair Dagen looked down his long nose at me. I thought he was going to make some triumphant announcement, or gesture that would make all his goons clap, or something inane like that.
Instead, he waved at the witch. "Heal them. I don't want blood in my plane. But leave the bruises on the bitch's face." Of course he was the kind of prick who liked to leave marks.
I rolled my eyes at him, even though it hurt like fuck.
The witch, her expression haughty and unimpressed, stepped toward me. Mercifully, she crouched and started to knit the bone in my leg back together.
Unfortunately that too hurt like fuck and I couldn't keep from crying out in agony.
Dagen smiled.
If not for the goon's tight grip on my arms, I might have lunged at him the moment my leg was fixed.
