Captive Of The Ruthless Underground King

The hum was the first thing she noticed. It wasn't the rattle of the trailer or the roar of a truck engine. It was a smooth, low vibration that seemed to resonate in her bones.

Della opened her eyes. The light was dim, golden and soft.

She wasn't on the floor. She was sinking into leather so soft it felt like butter. The air smelled of conditioned oxygen and sandalwood.

She tried to sit up. Her hand jerked, stopped by a resistance. A soft leather strap bound her wrist to the armrest.

Panic, cold and sharp, pierced through the drug-induced haze.

"Where am I?" Her voice was a croak.

Across from her, Darius sat in a matching leather seat. The tactical vest was gone. He wore a black silk shirt now, unbuttoned at the top. A white bandage was visible underneath, stark against his tan skin. He held a tumbler of amber liquid, the ice clinking softly as he swirled it.

He took a sip, his eyes never leaving her face. "Stop moving," he said. "Or you'll vomit."

A man in a white coat stepped into her line of sight. He looked tired and terrified. He carried a medical bag.

Della shrank back into the seat. "Don't touch me!"

The doctor hesitated. He looked at Darius. "Sir?"

"Check her head," Darius said. He didn't look at the doctor. He looked at Della with a detached curiosity, like a scientist observing a specimen. "She hit the wall hard."

The doctor stepped forward. "I need to check your pupils, Miss."

He shined a penlight into her eyes. The beam stabbed through her skull, intensifying the throbbing headache. Della flinched, tears springing to her eyes. She scanned the space.

This was a plane. A private jet. The interior was beige and cream, spotless and expensive. The windows showed nothing but the black void of night.

She did the math instantly. Private jets cost thousands of dollars an hour to operate. This wasn't a common thug. This was organized crime. Cartel. Syndicate.

The doctor's gloved hands moved toward her collarbone. "I need to check for fractures."

Della kicked out. Her bare foot connected with the doctor's shin. "No! Get away!"

Darius moved. He didn't stand up; he launched himself. In a blur of motion, he was out of his seat and gripping the doctor's wrist.

The air in the cabin froze.

"Use the scanner," Darius said. His voice was low, devoid of emotion, but the threat was palpable. "Don't touch her."

The doctor paled. "Yes, Sir. Of course. I apologize."

Della panted, her chest heaving. She looked at Darius. He wasn't protecting her modesty. He was guarding his property. The realization made bile rise in her throat.

Darius released the man and leaned back against the bulkhead, crossing his arms. He watched as the doctor used a handheld device to scan her torso. His gaze felt heavier than the blanket covering her legs.

"Mild concussion," the doctor announced, stepping back quickly. "Some bruising on the wrists and back. She'll live."

Darius waved a hand. The doctor retreated to the back of the plane as if his life depended on it.

Darius sat on the edge of the table between their seats. He poured a glass of water and held it out.

"Drink."

Della stared at the glass. "Are you going to kill me?"

"Not yet," Darius said. "You're useful."

Della took the glass with her free hand. Her fingers shook. She drank, the cool water soothing her raw throat. Her mind raced. Useful. That could mean ransom. It could mean trafficking. It could mean leverage.

She needed to be smart. She had degrees from Wharton and Harvard that nobody in that trailer park knew about. She knew leverage. She knew negotiation. But right now, she was a girl in pajamas tied to a chair.

The plane jolted. Turbulence.

Della gasped, water splashing onto her hand.

Darius reached out. His hand covered her shoulder, steadying her. His palm was hot. The heat seeped through her thin shirt, branding her.

"Easy," he murmured.

She looked up at him. His eyes were dark, bottomless. There was no kindness in them, only possession.

The intercom crackled. "Approaching landing zone, Sir. Ten minutes."

Darius pulled his hand away. " finish the water. We're almost home."

Home. The word sounded like a sentence.