Chapter 474
Chapter 474:
“We are going to war p>
Miles away, in the plush, climate-controlled drawing room of the Kensington Estate, Beatrice Kensington lifted a porcelain teacup to her lips. The Earl Grey was hot, perfectly brewed, but it did nothing to warm the ice in her veins. She sat by the window, watching the storm that Alistair was currently braving.
The door opened silently. Her personal assistant, a mousy woman named Clara, stepped in. She looked pale, clutching a secure satellite phone.
“Mrs. Kensington,” Clara whispered, wringing her hands. “We just received a coded confirmation from… our mutual acquaintance’s handler p>
Beatrice didn’t turn her head. She took a slow, deliberate sip of tea.
“And?” she asked. “Did the package arrive p>
“The extraction was successful,” Clara said, her voice trembling. “Ms. Sterling is… en route. However, the destination remains classified. Mr. Graves has gone dark p>
Beatrice lowered the cup to the saucer with a delicate clink. A frown marred her perfect forehead. Lucian’s silence was expected, but it was also insulting. He treated her like a financier, not a partner.
“He’s taking her to the desert,” Beatrice mused, a thin, razor-sharp smile cutting across her face. “He always retreats to the sand when he captures a prize. It’s his playground. The desert has a way of swallowing people, doesn’t it p>
“Mr. Thorne is reportedly mobilizing,” Clara added nervously. “His private security has locked down the airspace above the city, and his jet is prepping for immediate takeoff. He knows, Beatrice. He knows it was us p>
Beatrice laughed. It was a cold, sharp sound, like glass breaking.
“Let him mobilize,” she said, dismissing Clara with a wave of her hand. “By the time Alistair crosses the country, there won’t be anything left of Skye Sterling but a cautionary tale. Lucian doesn’t take prisoners, Clara. He takes trophies. And he breaks them p>
She turned back to the window, watching her reflection in the dark glass.
“Goodbye, Skye,” she whispered. “You should have stayed dead the first time p>
Consciousness returned to Skye in fragments, like shards of glass piecing themselves back together.
First came the throbbing—a dull, rhythmic pounding in her temples that felt like a hammer striking an anvil inside her skull.
Then came the sound. A low, constant hum. The vibration of an engine.
Rea𝘥 𝗐i𝘵𝘩𝗈𝘶𝗍 𝗅𝗂m𝗂𝗍𝘴 𝘰n b𝖾.𝖼𝗈𝗺
Finally, the sensation.
Her hands were numb. She tried to move them, to rub her aching head, but they wouldn’t separate. Her wrists were bound together, tight. She felt the texture of the restraint—it wasn’t rough rope or cold steel. It was soft, velvet-covered zip ties. Even in kidnapping, Lucian Graves maintained his twisted aesthetic of luxury.
Skye forced her eyes open.
The cabin was dim, illuminated only by the amber floor lights. She was in a cabin now—leather seats, walnut paneling, pressurized air that made her ears pop. She glanced at the window; outside, the sky was pitch-black, devoid of city lights.
Hours must have passed since the extraction.
A private jet.
She was slumped in a wide leather armchair. She looked down at herself. She was still wearing the black silk evening gown from the engagement party, though the hem was torn and dusty, and one of the delicate straps hung loosely off her shoulder. The fabric offered zero protection against the aggressive air conditioning of the cabin.
Across the aisle, a shadow moved.
Skye kept her breathing steady, feigning sleep, watching through the slit of her eyelashes.
Lucian Graves sat there, relaxed, one leg crossed over the other. He held a tumbler of amber liquid, swirling it gently. He looked immaculate, as if he hadn’t just orchestrated a violent abduction.