Page 73 of Owned By Shadows

“You want to bring pigs into this?” Rowan asks, and I cut a glance to see his brows lifted as surprise fills his voice.

A smile blooms on my face, but I know it’s cold. “Leverage, Rowan. As Hunter would say, there are lines we don’t cross, but there are also resources we shouldn’t overlook, contacts that I’ve spent years nurturing that he does not know about. My father has spent decades avoiding official attention. Having Scotland Yard take interest in his organisation’s movements would be...problematic for him.”

“And helpful for us,” Rowan concedes, his lips pursed.

“Precisely.” I resume typing, then pause again, my brows dropping. “Have we heard from Hunter today?”

Rowan checks his watch, his own face tight. We’re both worried. They leave today, and all we can do is hold our breath and wait for them to land at Northolt. “Not since his 0600 check in. They should depart Singapore within the hour.”

I nod, but a knot of tension forms between my shoulders. I want to snarl like a rabid beast at all the scenarios that keep running through my mind, ranging from the plane crashing to it being hunted down by Sergi’s men. No amount of deep breaths will ease the tension until we’re all here in London together.

“She’ll be here soon,” Rowan says quietly, as if reading my thoughts. “They’ll be here soon.”

“Not soon enough.” I need mySolnishko, my sun who makes even the dullest day brighter. The same for Roman,Moy Lev, my lion. And Hunter, the man who I never knew I needed but who makes me feel like everything will be okay as long as he’s here. Huffing a breath, I turn the laptop screen to show Rowan what I’d been working on—detailed schematics of Sergi’s suspected medical facility. “Tonight, we need to get a closer look at this building. If this is where my father plans to hold Iris, we need to know every entrance, exit, and weakness before she lands on UK soil.”

Rowan studies the plans, his expression grim. “And if we’re spotted?”

“Then we’ll give my father something new to think about.” Rowan’s lips tip up into a grin that is downright scary. I close the laptop with a decisive click, my smile growing as a part of me hopes we get to show my father that we’re not that easy to dominate. “Get your gear ready. We move at midnight.”

“WANDERING IN THE DARK” BY URSINE VULPINE, ANNACA

IRIS

The steady beep of the blood pressure monitor has become the soundtrack to my fucking existence. I equally loathe the sounds, and am relieved by it because it tells me I’m okay, that my baby is okay. Or not. But at least I know.

I stare out the small window of the private medical jet, watching clouds drift beneath us, trying to focus on anything but the constant reminder of my silent condition.

Thirty-six weeks pregnant now, my body feels foreign, swollen, a vessel for both life and danger. It doesn’t feel like my own, and I sometimes wonder if I’m a ticking time bomb just waiting to go off. The preeclampsia hasn’t improved despite weeks of bloody medication and resting. If anything, the stress of constant movement, the constant threat that hangs over our heads like an axe waiting to fall, has made it worse.

“How are you feeling?” Roman asks, settling into the seat across from me, his brows creased as he looks me over. I swallow, wanting to shout at him for looking at me like that, like I’m already broken and falling apart at the seams, but I don’t have the energy, so instead I just huff a sigh.

“Like a fucking science experiment,” I snap, gesturing to the various monitors attached to me. “How much longer?”

“About twelve hours to our refuelling stop, then another ten to the UK,” Roman replies as Andrei walks over with my medicalchart, checking the latest readings, his expression carefully neutral. Too neutral.

“Your blood pressure is elevated again.”

I can’t stop the growl that falls from my lips, and I close my eyes, taking in a measured breath. “It’s been elevated for weeks, Andrei.”

“This is higher.” He adjusts my IV drip, no doubt increasing the medication dose slightly. “Try to rest. Doctor’s orders.”

What the fuck does he think I’m doing?

“Difficult to rest when you’re flying toward a confrontation with a psychopathic Russian mobster,” I mutter, but with a look from Roman, which tells me I’m being a grumpy bitch, I lean my seat back obediently as Andrei walks off towards the cockpit.

Hunter appears from the front cabin. His wounded side has finally healed enough that he’s only got a small bandage which is hidden under his T-shirt, which clings to his muscles and has heat curling in my core. Fucking pregnancy hormones. Murderous rage one moment, complete hussy the next. He nods to Roman, who relinquishes his seat without comment, going to the one on the opposite side of the plane and sitting next to Bubby, who once again is white-knuckling the armrests. Poor kid.

“Captain says we’re cleared all the way to UK airspace,” Hunter tells me, leaning forward and taking my hand. Damn, he’s too pretty. “No flight plan anomalies, no unusual air traffic communications.”

“So we’re safe for now?” I question, the tight band encasing my chest easing just slightly. Though I know better than to fully believe it. Sergi is a master at lulling us into a false sense of security, only to jump out like a fucking clown and yell surprise. I fucking hate clowns, creepy bastards.

Hunter’s smile doesn’t reach his eyes, the skin around them bunching. “As safe as anyone can be when they’re challenging Sergi Petrov, but yes, this part of the journey is secure.”

I study his face, the new lines around his eyes, the hardness that hadn’t been there before the island. All of us have changed in these past weeks—becoming sharper, more focused, the unspoken fear for me, for Nik, and our baby driving us to extra levels of vigilance. I can’t help but wonder what will be left once this is finally over. Will we even recognise each other? Or will we be changed beyond repair, moulded into creatures who don’t know how to live without fear, without that ever present anxiety that someone is coming for us?

“Have you heard from Nik today?” I ask to distract the morbid turn of my thoughts.

A flicker of something—frustration? worry?—crosses Hunter’s face before he controls it. “Brief message this morning. They’re in position, preparing for our arrival.”

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