No way of knowing.
No reason to draw a line in the sand just yet.
The door to the cockpit opened and closed behind him. Rannock threw his friend a warning look. “I donnae want tae hear it.”
“I donnae fucking care.” Sliding into the copilot seat, Kruger treated him to a healthy dose of stink-eye. “You need tae pull your head out of your arse, mon. Get it screwed on straight before you lay eyes on Cate.”
He knew what his friend wanted to say. No sense fighting the fact he’d come to the same conclusion about a millisecond after he realized she was in trouble and he wasn’t close enough to help. “I’ve got it straight.”
“You sure?” Kruger asked, toying with a button he shouldn’t be touching. “’Cause after the mess with Heather, I want tae be sure.”
“You keep telling me it wasn’t my fault.”
“It wasn’t,” Kruger said, tone softer than he’d ever heard it. Gentle tone. Careful words, as though he understood Rannock’s pain, but still refused to allow him to shoulder the blame. “She OD’d, Ran. Was an addict out of control. No way could you have—”
“I was in and out of her bed for months, Ruger.”
“You force her?”
“Nay,” he growled, insulted by the question.
“She have fun?”
“Of course, but—”
“You get her into rehab?” Twisting in his seat, Kruger raised a brow. “Twice?”
“Fuck you.”
“You broke it off, mon. You told her you were done and stopped seeing her. You didnae kill her.” Gaze steady, Kruger reached out and gripped the nape of his neck. “Let it go, Ran. You’ve mourned her, now move on. With or without you, Heather would’ve imploded. The outcome would’ve been the same. Her death doesnae make you unworthy of a female of your own.”
“Of Cate, you mean.”
“Aye.”
“She may not be—”
“Bullshite. She’s exactly what you think she is, brother—yours.”
Holding his friend’s gaze, Rannock struggled to understand. A lot of things, but mostly Heather’s decision to take her own life. The ME labelled her passing an accidental overdose. Rannock knew better. He had the voicemail, the one he got too late, saved on the pub’s landline to prove it. She’d threatened him, vowing to take her own life if he didn’t change his mind and come back. If he didn’t submit to her will. An awful situation. One so toxic he knew now he should never have stayed. Not past the first night, never mind the weeks that followed.
He understood that now. A year ago, he hadn’t. All he’d felt was guilt. For not saving her. For failing to get her the help she needed. For not loving her when it was obvious she needed someone to.
“Ran,” Kruger said, shaking him a little.
“I hear you, lad. I got it. I just…” Rannock paused when his ass started vibrating. Shifting in his seat, he reached into the back pocket of his jeans. The cell phone he used when talking to Cate buzzed in his hand. He frowned as he saw the screen. The video-call function had been engaged. The caller ID said…
Cate calling.
Kruger frowned. “What the hell?”
“Quiet,” Rannock murmured as he accepted the call.
A male with dark hair and pale blue eyes appeared on screen. Powerful energy. Unrestrained magic. A male capable of untold destruction. A throwback to the old ways, when immortals ruled and humans believed. A Dreamweaver whom most of the Fae in Seelie and Unseelie Courts believed no longer existed.
Surprise made Rannock pause. Calculation shoved disbelief out of the way.
Keeping his expression neutral, he tipped his chin. “Shadow Walker.”
“Dragon,” the male said, mouth curved up at the corners.
“Rannock.”
“Rathbone,” the male said, completing the introduction. “I believe I have something that belongs to you.”
“Aye,” he growled. “And I want her back… unharmed.”
Rathbone tilted his head. “I’m prepared to talk terms.”
Not liking the turn of events, Kruger hissed under his breath.
Rannock ignored his friend in favor of staying focused. “I want tae see her.”
“You will… when you get here.”
Fear for his female rose hard.
Rannock bared his teeth in warning.
“You’ve my word Cate is well. Unharmed, simply locked away.” Shifting in his leather chair, Rathbone leaned closer to the screen. Pale eyes alight with magical fire, he drilled Rannock with a look, one meant to convey the seriousness of the situation. “You get me what I want, I give you Cate. Win-win, dragon.”
“Only if I get tae draw your blood.”
The bastard smiled, pretending to be amused. The humor never quite reached his eyes. “One twenty-three Kehoe Street, historic distinct in Savannah. Come to the side entrance. I’ll greet you there.”
Rathbone’s hand flashed across the screen.
The call disconnected.
“Motherfucker!”
“Calm down, Ran. Donnae throw it.” Quick as a lightning strike, Kruger snatched the cell phone out of his hand. “We may need it again.”
What he needed was to reach Savannah and see Cate. What he needed was to rip Rathbone’s head from his body. What he needed was violence, the kind of devastation his dragon half always longed to unleash. Breathing hard, Rannock snarled at the blacked-out windows in the cockpit. Nothing less than a dead Shadow Walker would do.
7
T-minus fifteen minutes
Yanking the silk curtains away from the window, Cate threw up the blinds. The waning warmth of the setting sun hit her, casting shadows across the garden beyond the wavy planes of glass. The side of her brain that enjoyed good design took a snapshot. Lots of roses in bloom. Some peonies, bee balm, and azaleas. Live oaks dripping with Spanish moss. Stone pathways meandering past manicured hedges, deep flower beds, and stone benches. No doubt the private sanctuary of someone with money to burn.
Ignoring the picturesque landscape, she tried the window latch. Nothing doing. The lock refused to budge.
She leaned on the round latch, trying to force it open. Stuck. Locked down tight, just like the other four windows in the bedroom doubling as her prison cell. A room she’d woken up in less than ten minutes ago, warm and snug beneath a comforter someone had had the audacity to tuck around her like she was a beloved guest instead of a hostage. Nothing but a pawn in a messed-up game. One who would be used to force her father out of hiding.
With a curse, Cate spun away from the window. Luxury greeted her in the form of a gorgeous bedroom with amazing wallpaper—dark green and gold, with pink flowers and majestic blue herons. She frowned at it, hating the fact that she loved the design. Vintage decor done well always got her motor running. Which was why she refused to look up. After waking in a bed not her own, inside a room she wanted nothing to do with, the beautiful mural on the ceiling was too much for her to bear.
Any other time, she would’ve taken a closer look, admired each brush stroke and studied the composition. Right now, all she wanted to do was set it on fire. Along with the fourposter bed and matching antique furniture. Which was, by the way, bolted to the freaking floor.