I dig into my bag anyway and whip a pack of gummy worms at his face. He catches it one-handed, grinning. “Atta boy.”
Tyler steals a granola bar. I smack his hand. “That’s mine!”
“Rookie tax,” he huffs.
Soon it’s chaos—snacks everywhere, Cole reaching back for more, me batting hands away like a dragon guarding treasure. For once I’m grinning again, manic but free.
Damian doesn’t stop it. His hand stays steady on my thigh, anchoring me, while the noise drowns out the silence that was choking me.
By the time wheels hit tarmac, half my stash is gone. Denver. Halfway to Haverton.
Cole’s the first to whine. “If I don’t get carbs in the next ten minutes, I’ll die right here. Somebody carry me to bread.”
“Shut up,” Viktor growls.
But it works. Within minutes, we’re crowded into an airport restaurant with sticky tables and laminated menus. Chaos again—bread baskets ripped apart before they hit the table, Cole chirping, Shane muttering curses, Mats flirting with the waitress, Tyler looking like he’ll cry over the menu.
I’m halfway through fries, taunting Ty about ordering a salad in Denver, when Damian’s voice cuts clean through the noise.
“Finish up.”
That’s all.
And everyone obeys. Forks scrape faster, bread shoved down, drinks drained. When he stands, so does the table.
He herds us back to the gate like we’re kids. Second flight.
And this time, no Tyler.
No buffer, no distraction. Just me and him. Five more hours—eight with the time difference—trapped at his side.
My seat is right next to his. Damian drops into the aisle spot, buckles in, duffel precise at his feet. He doesn’t look at me. My heart plummets as I slide into the window seat like I’m stepping into an execution chamber.
The cabin dims. Engines rumble. The team nods off one by one.
I can’t.
Every time I start to drift, I jolt awake. Not from turbulence. From him. Damian’s right there, scrolling calmly on his phone, discipline in every line of him. Every breath he takes rattles through me like a puck off the post.
At some point, I wake to find his seat empty. Panic spikes fast, stupid, hollowing me out—until he returns.
He sits down with silent weight, carrying two drinks. Whiskey. Tea.
He sets the whiskey on my tray.
I blink. “Uh…sir, I think this is yours.”
He doesn’t answer at first. Places his tea down, slides his phone away. Then his eyes cut sideways, sharp.
“Drink it and go to sleep, Mercer.” His voice is low, casual, final. “You’re very distracting.”
My chest caves. Distracting. Me.
Heat floods everywhere. My hand just moves. I grab the glass, swallow fast.
Bad idea.
“Jesus Christ—” The burn sears down my throat. My whole body jerks. “How the fuck do you drink this? It tastes like someone lit a tree on fire and bottled the smoke!”
