My pulse stumbles. “What does zayka mean? Oh crap?—”
The third jolt hits. My breath catches. My chest tightens.
I hate turbulence. I hate how my body betrays me before my mind can reason it away.
“I’ve got you, Astrid.”
His voice cuts through the panic.
I barely register when his hand closes over mine.
Warm. Heavy. Certain.
“Look at me,” he says.
I can’t. If I do, I’ll lose what little hold I have left on my instincts. The stirring in my chest feels too familiar—panic, sharp and fast.
“Look at me,” he repeats, firmer now.
Finally, I turn my head. His eyes catch mine—steady, unflinching. Not alarmed. Not rushed.
Not unraveling like I am.
“Breathe with me,” he says. “Slow. You know the drill.”
He inhales deeply, chest rising. I follow, uneven at first.
“Good girl.”
The words hit harder than they should, curling through me in a way that’s both grounding and disarming.
The plane jolts again. My fingers tighten around his.
“You’re safe. I’ve got you.” His voice drops lower, almost a hum in the pit of my stomach. “It’s going to be alright.”
Something in his certainty cracks through the panic. I breathe again. Slowly.
“That’s it,” he murmurs.
I nod, still mute. He doesn’t let go. His thumb brushes over my knuckles—light, sure, anchoring me to now instead of fear.
The turbulence eases, but my heart keeps pounding.
“What does zayka mean?” I ask.
“A term of endearment,” he says easily. “You looked like you needed it.”
“What do you do, Yuri?”
“Things that require obedience.”
“You’re going for brooding and mysterious?” I tease softly.
“Whatever gets the job done.”
His calm, his control—it fascinates me. A man who says so little and somehow says everything.
Everything about him radiates power—darkness and light balanced perfectly in a frame built for both command and sin.Gold cuff links, custom clothes, the quiet confidence of a man who’s fought and won.
