I feel Aleksander before I see him—his presence always lands like a storm, dark and inevitable. He moves in fast, one big hand locking around the man’s shoulder, spinning him away from me.
“Back off,” Aleksander growls, low and cold, all traces of his earlier humor gone. He shoves the man against the nearest wall, voice a dangerous whisper in Russian I only half understand.
Everything in the lounge stops. My heart stutters, breath catching as Aleksander’s body tenses, arm pressed hard against the other man’s throat. It’s hot, terrifying, and—god, I can’t help it—electric. The force in Aleksander’s eyes, the way he shields me without a second thought, makes me dizzy.
The man gasps, struggling, but Aleksander doesn’t budge. His voice is sharp as glass. “You so much as look at her again, and you won’t walk off this flight.” He means every word; I can hear it.
For a moment, I’m frozen. The memory of what Aleksander can do, the violence he carries so easily under his skin, flashes through me.
The stranger’s face is turning red, eyes panicked now. He tries to shove back, but Aleksander’s grip only tightens. There’s aharsh thud—shoulder to panel, a glass nearly toppling. My heart pounds with fear and something darker, something that feels dangerously like desire. Aleksander is all muscle, all fury, and he makes no effort to hide it.
“Aleksander—” I manage, my voice thin, barely above a whisper. He doesn’t move, doesn’t even blink. His grip only tightens.
I force myself to step forward, lay a trembling hand on his arm. “Please. Let him go. He’s not worth it.”
He glances down at me, eyes wild with fury—and something else, something darker and possessive that makes my knees weak. Then, slowly, he loosens his hold, letting the man slump down and scramble away, coughing and clutching his throat.
Aleksander flexes his hand, knuckles scraped and red where the man must have tried to twist away. He hisses softly, shaking out his fingers.
I catch his wrist, worry and gratitude tangling in my chest. “You’re hurt,” I whisper.
He barely glances at his hand, voice rough but low, meant only for me. “Small price to pay,” he says, turning away, shoulders still rigid with anger. “He won’t bother you again.”
I glance around. People are staring, wide-eyed and whispering, a couple of crew members exchanging nervous glances. Heat rushes to my cheeks. I hurry after Aleksander, desperate not to be left alone, not to let him disappear into the polished shadows of the plane.
“Did you know that guy?” I hiss, catching up to him near the edge of the lounge.
He merely scoffs, as if the question is beneath him, and keeps walking. “Doesn’t matter.”
“Tell me,” I insist, lowering my voice, trying not to catch the attention of the rest of first class. I reach for his sleeve. “Aleksander?—”
He stops abruptly. I’m moving too fast and bump straight into his broad back. His hand shoots out, catching me by the waist with the same certainty as before, anchoring me so I don’t fall.
For a heartbeat, we’re frozen—my palms pressed to his chest, his fingers warm and possessive on my side. The world around us blurs—the stares, the whispers, even the pounding of my own heart.
You’re safe now,” he murmurs, voice barely above a whisper, meant only for me. “I promise.”
And for once, I believe him. Even if I shouldn’t.
4
ALEKSANDER
Bella insistson fussing over my hand like it’s some kind of mortal wound. I flex my fingers again, ignoring the dull sting in my knuckles. It’s nothing. I’ve taken far worse hits in boardrooms and back alleys.
She doesn’t buy it. “Let me see,” she says, reaching for my hand, all soft determination and narrowed eyes.
I scoff, pulling back just enough to remind her I’m still in charge. “It’s a scratch. I’m fine.”
She crosses her arms and gives me that look—the one that used to drive me crazy in New York, stubborn and sweet at the same time. “Men and their egos,” she mutters. “It’s like you all think you’re made of steel.”
I can’t help the smile that tugs at my lips. “Most of us are.”
She rolls her eyes. “Yeah, well, even steel rusts. I’m getting a flight attendant.”
“I don’t care,” I say, jaw set, but she’s already glancing over her shoulder, scanning the lounge for help.
“Fine,” she says, arching a brow. “Then I’ll handle it myself. Give me your hand, Aleksander.”
