Page 9 of Blazing Embers

After a few swallows, she turns her head away. “I’ve had enough. What I could use is to have my arms untied. They’re sore from being in the same position for hours.”

I pause, then nod, pulling the knife from my inner pocket and cutting the ropes.

She rubs at her wrists, flexes each hand as if checking for broken bones, then rolls out her shoulders with a soft wince.

“I need the bathroom,” Tara says flatly. “And I hope your flying palace comes equipped with sanitary towels.”

“Yes,” I say. “There are some in the bathroom.”

As she stands and stretches, my gaze drops instinctively to the curve of her waist and the way her top pulls tight across herchest. My cock reacts before my mind does. I clench my jaw and walk to the overhead compartment.

From inside, I pull out a crisp, cream-colored blouse, black, flowing pants, soft socks, warm boots, and sealed boutique bags with matching underwear. I toss them onto the bed.

“You might want to change into these. As appealing as your current attire is…” I glance down at her wrinkled, blood-smeared sleepwear.

“If I knew I was going to be drugged, trafficked across the world, and forced into marriage,” she cuts in, her voice sharp as glass, “I would’ve worn my best pajamas.”

She bends to pick up the clothes and winces—sharp, involuntary pain flickering across her face. She straightens with a hissed breath.

“If you don’t mind giving me some privacy while I use the bathroom…” She eyes me, deadpan. “I promise I’m not going to run.” She turns slightly, arms out. “See? No parachute. And I left my wings in my other skin.”

My lips twitch despite myself. I step aside, nodding once.

“There’s everything you need in there. Even a shower, if you want it.”

She gives me a tight, almost sarcastic smile as she passes, pausing in the doorway.

“And I’m not apologizing for the stain on your bed. That’s what you get for kidnapping a woman with a very heavy monthly flow.”

The door closes with a soft click.

I glance at the bed—and there it is. Blood pooled in the center of the sheets.

Fuck.

The wave of guilt hits harder than expected. I rake a hand through my hair, turning to summon the crew. No woman deserves to feel humiliated over something so basic. No matter how sharp her tongue or how cold her stare… she’s still human.

And no matter how well she tried to mask it, I saw the flash of mortification in her eyes the moment she spotted it.

She emerges from the bathroom a few minutes before landing. The soft scent of perfume hits me first, followed by the fresher note of shampoo. Her hair falls in loose, freshly washed and dried curls around her shoulders, even though they shine raven-black now, relief washes through me that she didn’t get her hair permanently straightened. Some things don’t need to be erased.

She’s wearing the clothes I laid out. Clean. Composed. Controlled. The blouse molds to her torso, and the pants hug her hips like they were stitched for her alone. She moves like she doesn’t even notice, like her body isn’t a weapon just waiting to detonate.

That alluring perfume hits me again, stirring my senses, and I swallow, clearing my head, letting the thought of who told me it was her favorite perfume distract me to a point of anger—Konstantin! He’d told me it was her favorite. Thinking about how much Konstantin learned from her while pretending to be someone else. That assignment ruined more than I expected. I gave the order, and it cost us both.

We used to be closer than blood. Now, Konstantin barely speaks unless he has to. Keeps his distance. Volunteers for missions that take him across borders—and oceans.

I push the thought away as the pilot’s voice crackles overhead, announcing our descent.

“Want me back on the bed with my hands tied?” Tara asks sweetly.

I ignore her and open the cabin door, standing aside. “No. We can sit in the cabin.”

She brushes past me without a word, and my body reacts before I can stop it. Taking a breath I force my hardening cock to relax and follow her to the seats.

We strap into the leather seats. As the jet starts its descent, I notice the tightness in Tara’s grip. Her knuckles whitened against the armrests.

I’m just about to say something, but Konstantin leans forward from behind, his tone deliberately provoking.

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