Page 68 of Fangs for the Memories
“No kidding.” I inspect the shredded shoulders of my coat, all the down in them long gone to the wind. “But I still don’t want to leave.”
Viktor makes a grinding sound. “You don’t have a choice. The plane is leaving in the next three minutes, as soon as your luggage gets here.”
He stands between me and the door, a stone statue, immovable.
“So, I’m a prisoner?”
Viktor releases a long-suffering sigh. “Would it help if I said yes?”
I fold my arms and glare at him.
“Don’t be like this, Grace. Ferenc only has your safety in mind.”
“How can I be safe if he isn’t with me?” I say, my voice choking in my chest. “How…”
My words are cut off by a shout from outside the aircraft. Viktor turns and looks out the door.
“Time to go,” he says, stepping out and maneuvering his great wings through the small hole.
“Wait!” I’m out of my seat racing to the door even as a steward appears and grabs hold of the door, swinging it closed. “When can I come back?”
“When it’s all over.” Viktor stands with snow swirling around him, and the door closes.
“Miss.” The steward swings the locks over. “Please take your seat,” he says in a heavily accented voice.
The aircraft engines whine and it moves off. I walk back along it to the plush, wide seats and stare out the window. The snow is mere flurries now, and I can clearly see Viktor watching us leave.
But no Ferenc.
I take a seat, defeated, useless.
The next three hours pass in a blur. The steward does his best to tempt me with food and drink, but I’m not interested, and he is desperate to keep his distance. When the pilot announces we’re coming in to land, I don’t even look out the window.
I am a mess. A complete mess. The last place I want to be is England.
I want to be with Ferenc, and I know I should have never left his apartment on my own. Not while there was too much I didn’t understand.
I should have made more of an effort. Because otherwise all I’ve done is swap one relationship filled with secrets for another.
The jet touches down smoothly, and we taxi away from the main airport buildings to those reserved for the private aircraft. It comes to a halt, and I see a number of people waiting alongside a large black SUV.
“Please wait,” the steward says.
Like I’m in a rush to get back onto British soil.
“I don’t have my passport,” I say.
“That has been sorted out,” he responds before opening the door and letting the late afternoon air in.
It smells of fuel and damp. Already I miss the crisp air of Budapest. It’s enough to cause tears to prick the backs of my eyes.
I dash my hand at my eyes as the steward drops the stairs and two men climb them. They peer in at me and speak in rapid Hungarian.
“These pack members will accompany you wherever you wish to go,” the steward says to me, gesturing I can leave.
I feel like if I step off the jet, I will never see Ferenc again. But with all three pairs of eyes on me, I don’t have any option. My body and limbs feel like they’re filled with lead as I climb down the stairs and I’m ushered to the SUV.
“Where you go?” one of the men (or rather werewolves) asks me.
