And for the first time in months, maybe even years, I feel the tightness in my chest loosen. Not gone. Just loosened.
The prince brought a jet.
I brought the scars.
Let’s see who lands heavier.
The moment I step onto the jet, the world outside dulls into background noise. The scent of leather, the faint hum of the engines, the low lighting, it all screams decadence, comfort, control. A stark contrast to the rattling transports and desert sand I've been eating for the past nine months.
Sebastian walks ahead, all princely grace in his tailored black suit, while I look like I crawled out of a trench, and hell, maybe I did. My combat boots thud against the polished floor as I drop into the nearest seat like gravity gave up on me.
The hostess looks like she’s floating as she offers champagne in crystal flutes—thin, cold, breakable—so far from the weight of stainless steel in my hands that it’s almost funny.
“Thank you,” I say, taking one with a nod. Her smile is warm, polite, and professional, but her eyes linger just a beat longer on me. I lean back, ignoring it.
Sebastian takes his seat across from me and raises his glass. “To survival.”
I smirk, tap mine against his. “To silence.”
I let my head fall back against the seat, eyes fluttering closed. The leather hugs me like it missed me. The air is cold, filtered. Clean. Not like sand-filled tents or the metallic stench of gun oil.
Peace.
A word I forgot could feel this real.
“Man,” I murmur, my voice rough around the edges. “I can’t even remember how easy it is to breathe.”
Sebastian chuckles, low and knowing. “I bet. You wanna take a shower and rest? There’s a full suite in the back.”
I crack one eye open. “Nah, I’m good. If I wash off the grime, I might feel human again. Not ready for that yet.”
He lifts his glass. “Suit yourself.”
We drink. The bubbles hit smooth. Way smoother than the rotgut whiskey back on base. This life of his, all glitz and privilege, should feel like a foreign world. But with Sebastian, it doesn’t. We've bled beside each other too many times to let gold fences get in the way.
“So,” I say, rolling my glass between my fingers. “How’s everything on your end? Haven’t gotten hitched yet?”
Sebastian groans, dragging a hand down his face. “It’s not funny.”
I chuckle. “Kinda is.”
“The closer my birthday gets, the more I feel it, like a chokehold. Grandpa doesn’t press, but he doesn’t have to. I know the moment I hit the mark, he’ll come for me with a folder of noble candidates and a damn ceremonial pen.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Would he actually choose one for you?”
He nods, exhaling hard. Resignation clouds his face like a storm rolling in. “If I don’t pick one soon, yeah. Politics, alliances, appearances. The whole game. I’m just a piece on the board.”
“Man, that sucks.”
“Tell me about it.”
I lean back again, eyes on the ceiling. “Tradition’s a bitch.”
He laughs, but it’s hollow. The kind you let out when the truth digs a little too deep.
“Sometimes I envy you,” he admits.
I tilt my head, smirking. “That’s new.”
