Something squeezed in my chest.
Not because it was romantic.
Because it was true.
I tucked myself under his chin, letting the steady thrum of his heartbeat ground me.
He rested his cheek against my hair and breathed me in, and for a long, quiet moment, neither of us spoke.
Then he whispered, voice barely audible over the engines, “I’m glad you’re here.”
I closed my eyes.
“Me too,” I whispered back.
The soft chime of the cabin lights jolted me awake.
For a second, I didn’t know where I was, only that the air around me felt warm and safe. Then the arm around my waist tightened just slightly, and I remembered.
Andrei.
The plane.
And my seriously questionable life choices.
He was already awake, watching me with that quiet intensity that made trouble feel inevitable.
“We’re landing soon,” he murmured, hand dragging lazily up the curve of my waist. “You need to get dressed.”
“You tore my shirt,” I reminded him.
His smirk was unapologetic. “I did, didn’t I? I’d do it again too.”
I shoved him lightly in the chest. He didn’t budge. “Can I get up?”
“I’ll allow it.” He reclined back, arms behind his head like he’d just conquered a small nation while I rolled my eyes at him, trying not to let my mind dwell on how sore I was.
I climbed out from under him and went to my go-bag near the galley. My muscles protested—Andrei Dragunov had not been gentle with me—but I ignored the warmth crawling up my neck.
I dug through the bag until I found a black fitted tee. I pulled it on with quick movements and then yanked on my panties and my black pants.
Behind me, Andrei was dressing too, slipping into a tailored black button-down and a pair of dark trousers.
He watched me as he fastened his cuffs. “You good?”
“I’m always good,” I blushed.
He stepped closer, tilted my chin up with two fingers, and kissed me with the sort of infuriating awareness that made my knees soften. When he pulled back, his mouth curved just slightly.
“You’re dangerous,” he murmured.
“So are you.”
We both pretended that wasn’t a problem.
The jet descended through thick gray clouds, the outline of Moldova appearing below in muted shapes. The runway sat on the outskirts of a small city, carved into a sprawling private estate. The tarmac was cracked in places. The hangars were reinforced steel. There wasn’t any signage. Nothing telling us what we were walking into.
That should have been our first warning.
