Falcon (Kindred, #5)

TEN-1

TEN

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“Leave Devon and me alone,” he said, laying his gaze on her.

Devon understood now why the illumination in the room wasn’t as bright as it could be; he seemed happier to exist in the dark. Bess stretched her arms from the back of the chair and then followed his instruction. Scurrying away, Bess closed the right-hand door behind her, sealing Devon into this room with Zave.

Putting down her fork, Devon brought her napkin to her lips and wasn’t sure of what would happen next. Waiting for him to guide her, she said nothing.

Sauntering towards the table with long, slow steps, his expression didn’t give away much about his thoughts. “I should introduce myself,” he said. An odd opening perhaps, given that they’d met, they’d kissed, but maybe that was why he felt the need to be more formal and to do things properly. It would keep her at a distance.

“I guess you should.”

He kept going, walking the length of the table on the opposite side from the one she sat on. He was assured, with a confident posture and an athletic physique, and he didn’t strike her as an anti-social recluse.

Turning, his stance was wide and he linked his hands at his back. “I’m Xavier Knight,” he said. The name was familiar but didn’t immediately conjure recognition, so she dismissed it and watched him stride back along the length of the table toward her.

Given that he knew her name, she couldn’t respond in a traditional way. “I want to say thank you,” she said. “For your gift today, it was thoughtful.”

“No more than what you deserve, after all you’ve been through,” he said, putting his hands on the back of the chair Bess had been leaning on to pull it out.

“And your house is beautiful. Thank you for letting me draw its lines and angles, it was a treat. Getting the chance to walk around was amazing, much better than being locked up.”

“You’re not a prisoner here,” he said, seating himself opposite her and folding his forearms on the table. “This isn’t our normal way of conducting business.”

When his eyes met hers she almost choked on her own breath. They appeared as hollow points, drilling into her.

“Yes, I... I have guessed that,” she said. After how the situation had been explained to her when she first got here and with all that Rig had told her about how these people were, she knew this wasn’t “normal”. The fact that she knew their names and relationships and that she had met Xavier and seen his house, all of this was unusual conduct for them.

“But last night,” he said. “I have to apologize.”

From such a formal conversation, she didn’t expect anything personal. “For what?” she asked. “Standing outside my room? You’re allowed. It’s your house.”

“No. For kissing you.”

She didn’t want him to apologize for that, she wanted him to do it again. But his detached expression didn’t give her hope that that would be happening any time soon. “Don’t apologize,” she said. “I enjoyed it.” Wanting to kick herself for making such a stupid statement, Devon was surprised that he didn’t just laugh at her or sneer.

“It won’t happen again,” he said.

Disappointment hurt her more than it should after such a short association, it wasn’t like she had an emotional investment in their connection. But for some reason it hurt her to hear him dismiss any chance that they may explore the connection further.

“Why not?” she asked, not usually so bold.

Her time with him was precious and if she didn’t take risks to utilize it to its maximum potential, she would have nothing but time in this place, and she’d wile it away with thoughts of things she should have done differently. Just like she’d done in that metal box. She didn’t want to live like that anymore, she wanted to embrace life and that meant taking risks.

She would never know when life might be snatched away from her.

“Bess forges close relationships with the women we bring here,” he said, and again she felt that twinge of intense hurt because he was ignoring her question and she was confused.

Did he not want to kiss her? Did he not enjoy it? Was he worried about what she’d been through and pushing her too far so soon after that ordeal? Did he want to avoid any appearance that he might be trying to manipulate her into favoring the Kindred?

Or did he maybe have a problem with her in principle? He had a large house, money, sophistication, a vast skillset, none of which she had. Devon was dirt poor and from the streets and scraped by living from paycheck to paycheck, often not making ends meet.

It had probably been easy for him to forget that in the night when they were just two human beings facing each other, exploring an attraction. But on reflection, he’d maybe decided that she wasn’t good enough for him and she couldn’t argue against that.

“Bess is a wonderful woman,” she said. “She’d been good to me.”

“She’s good to everyone. It’s her responsibility to talk to the women when they’re healthy enough to leave here. She coaches them through every step of how to deal with their families and helps those who want to go to the cops to get their story straight.”

The Kindred did offer a thorough service. “You advise them?”

“As you’ve been told several times, we do have interests to protect. Anonymity allows us to do what we do. We never discourage anyone from going to the authorities, we simply ask that they say they escaped those that purchased them and give no further details.”

The strategy was smart. It allowed the Kindred to keep doing what they were doing without worrying about cops and other agencies chasing them. After being rescued and nursed back to health, it seemed like the least these women could do to simply say that they’d escaped their captors. They could say they’d been kept bound or gagged, blindfolded, that they knew nothing about where they’d been or who had bought them.

“Do you take them home?”

“We take them to various spots throughout the country so as not to raise suspicions or create a pattern, but we always let them go near a safe place. Those who don’t want to go to authorities, we leave them near their homes.”

“Meaning that even if the report gets back to the cartel that a girl has escaped and gone to cops, they don’t suspect you?”

“Right,” he said. “All transactions are final and there is no paperwork. The Mexicans don’t worry too much about a girl’s real identity. It’s unlikely they would be able to trace her to a specific buyer. It would take a guy from the night of the auction remembering who she’d left with.”

Both vendor and purchaser would want anonymity in the illegal transaction. His reminder of the night of the auction made her relive flashes of the experience, standing n***d in that waterfall of light... Zave had been there waiting, he’d have seen her panic and try to bolt.

Rig had told her that she was rescued because of him, but Zave could’ve picked any girl that night and didn’t have to limit himself to only her. Simply because she had a brother who knew someone with access, it didn’t seem right that she was special. She wanted to ask him about what it was like from the other side of that beam of light but didn’t want to remind him of her panic, of her n***d body, of her vulnerability.

“Some women don’t go to the cops?” she asked.

He took a long breath. “Not all the girls are on the right side of the law and some... well, premium girls mostly come from high society families who wouldn’t want to admit the shame.”

An explosion of anger made her bang a hand on the table. “It’s not their fault,” she said, defensive about the girls who endured the t*****e.

“You don’t have to tell me that,” he said, pushing one hand a few inches closer to her and then withdrawing it, keeping it flat on the table. “You’re a real firecracker, Devon.”

“I’m sorry,” she said, embarrassed. She lowered her eyes and ran a hand through her hair. “My brother says I bottle things up until they burst out. I guess I’m nearing that point.”

Until now, she’d been holding it together and she didn’t want to lose it in front of Zave, not when she was trying to win his respect. “Don’t apologize.”

“What I wouldn’t give for a strawberry and vanilla milkshake,” she murmured. The cool mixture had a way of cooling down her emotions and comforting her at the same time. “I overreacted, I shouldn’t have snapped.”

“You’ve been full of fire since I first laid eyes on you,” he said.

She didn’t want to blush, but she was sure she did, so she focused on her food. So much for not reminding him of that night. It turned out he was thinking of it anyway. No one had ever called her a firecracker before. Rig accused her of trying to blend into the background, not of trying to stand out.

Being honest, her voice came out meek. “I didn’t want to talk about that night.”

“Good,” he said. “Neither do I. I like logic, that means we start at the beginning. Tell me how you got there.”

“I don’t know,” she said, and this was the moment she hadn’t wanted to face—recounting her a*******n. Not because she remembered so much about it and it was traumatizing, but because she remembered so little and it was unsettling to think of herself helpless. “I was leaving the gallery late and that’s the last thing I remember.”

“Chances are you were drugged. Sedatives protect their anonymity, they disorientate you and conceal their location, which is the same reason they use the drugs after sale when you’re being transported to your owner’s property.”

“Ok,” she said, trying not to read too much into that because if she thought too much about it she might cross that threshold and go into meltdown mode.

“Did you have a show on at the gallery? Is that why you were leaving so late?”

“Oh, no,” she said, almost laughing, pleased by the way her mood lifted. “They let me use a space to work in. I live in a tiny studio apartment, there’s hardly space for my bed. I do some cleaning and work reception for them on weekends and evenings when they need cover. In return, they let me paint there.”

While she was happy talking about her work, something she’d said made Zave’s expression grow curious. “You were in the premium auction,” he muttered, like it was significant, although she didn’t know the difference in the levels of auction.

“What does that mean?”

Although there was a plate in front of him and cutlery on either side of it, he hadn’t paid any attention to the food or filled his empty glass with water, nor had he reached for the corked wine bottle further down in the spread. She’d like to think that he was enraptured by her, that she was all the sustenance he needed. But after vetoing the chance of their mouths ever getting close, she doubted that was his reason for flouting the meal.

“There are two types of trafficked women,” he said. “Those who are sold at auction to high-end buyers, the men who want their own personal slave.”

That was the type she frequently thought about. “And the second type?” she asked.

Scrutinizing his almost businesslike pose, his shoulders were square, his head level, and his expression unflinching. “What they would call wholesale merchandise. Women who are sold in batches, shipped to brothels all over the world.”

Those were the type of women from her district, types who probably ended up in trouble and may even be groomed to end up in their own metal box by apparent choice, though they couldn’t possibly comprehend the gravity of their fate.

Except now Devon understood his curiosity and had to ask, “Why was I in the premium auction rather than sent off to one of their brothels?”

Averting his eyes, it seemed he was still trying to come to a conclusion about that himself. “I don’t know. The cartel you were with sells both types on the same night. There’s one room filled with women batched into lots, they’re bid upon like livestock. Once that part of the evening is over, the premium auction starts. Women like you are top of the bill.”