I feel her tighten, her pussy pulsing around my cock as she cries out, coming hard, shaking beneath me. The sight and sound of her losing control tips me over the edge. I let go, driving deep, spilling inside her as the world narrows to nothing but heat and the taste of her name on my lips.
I slip out of her suite. The rest of the cabin is tense, everyone waiting for the next bit of bad news.
I settle into my own seat, but I can’t sit still. I watch the TV screen in front of me for a while, the little plane icon dropping fast toward Boston. My mind is running through every possible scenario, calculating exits, watching the faces of the crew. Every muscle in my body is tight. I force myself to wait until the last possible moment.
I glance over and see that Bella is awake again. She’s in her seat, pale and rigid, arms folded over herself, trying to look small.Her daughter is still curled up, somehow sleeping through the tension thrumming in the cabin.
I try to stay put, to wait for the wheels to hit the tarmac, but I can’t. My knee bounces. My hands clench and unclench. Every instinct screams at me to move.
As soon as I hear the landing gear drop, I’m up. I stride down the aisle, ignoring the questioning looks, and stop at her seat.
She looks up, fear etched in every line of her face. “Aleksander, what are you doing?”
I don’t waste a second. “You need to come with me. Now.” My tone brooks no argument.
She glances at her daughter, then back at me, searching for some reassurance. “What’s happening? Are we in trouble?”
I crouch, keeping my voice low and urgent. “We don’t have time. I’ll explain everything, but you need to trust me. Get your things. Wake her up.”
She hesitates for half a second, but there’s too much fear in her eyes to argue. She gathers her bag, rouses her daughter, and I keep one hand at her back, pushing through the slow tide of passengers.
She’s trembling. “Aleksander, please?—”
I look over, meeting her eyes. “Just stay with me. No matter what. Don’t talk to anyone. Don’t let go of my hand.”
Her fingers tighten on mine, knuckles white.
As we reach the front, Nikolai is already there, all calm confidence, talking quietly with a ground staffer in a neon vest.
“This way, please,” the staffer says, almost too politely, as if we’re just another set of VIPs needing special treatment.
We follow him off the plane and down a side stairwell, bypassing the crowd funneling into the main terminal. The corridor is narrow and cold, lined with faded signs and locked doors. Bella clings tighter to her daughter, her other hand holding mine.
I can feel her fear, the tension thrumming through her fingers, but I squeeze back.
We’re led into a small, brightly lit room tucked behind a frosted glass door—private immigration. The officer behind the desk barely glances up, but I see the quick flick of recognition between him and the staffer. Passports slide across the counter. Stamps thud down, one after another, and he hands everything back with a quiet, “Welcome to Boston.”
There’s a moment, a breath held, before we’re moving again. I thank the officer, my voice flat and even, then turn to Bella. “Almost done.”
She nods, her face pale but composed. Her daughter yawns and squeezes Bella’s hand, asking in a small voice, “Where are we?”
“Just a little detour, sweetheart,” Bella whispers, brushing a kiss over her forehead.
We exit through another door, emerging in a quieter part of the arrivals hall. Nikolai is already ahead, eyes scanning, every inch the professional. The ground staffer waves us forward—out a service door, down a short ramp, into the cool night air where a black sedan waits by the curb, engine idling.
Nikolai opens the rear door, and Bella slides in with her daughter. I slip in next to them, glancing back at the terminallights—brighter, busier, and already fading behind tinted glass. Nikolai joins the driver up front and the car pulls away, quiet and smooth, merging into the flow of Boston traffic.
Inside, Bella is trembling, her fingers still locked with mine. I wrap an arm around her shoulders, pulling her close as her daughter rests her head in her lap.
The city passes in a blur. The tension lingers, thick and heavy, but for the first time since we landed, I let myself believe we might be a step ahead.
And I don’t let go of her for a second.
Of course, they’re going to single us out once they get the footage.
I know it the moment the car merges onto the highway and the terminal lights fall away behind us. Somewhere, in a control room that smells like burnt coffee and recycled air, a bored tech is going to rewind the lounge cameras. They’ll see me and Kirov. Too close. Too tense. They’ll freeze-frame the moment our shoulders brush, the way he leaned in, the way I didn’t back down.
They’ll think it means something.
