Something fierce and protective unfurled in my chest at her declaration—a feeling foreign to the calculating coldness I’d cultivated over the years. Harboring emotions usually led to tactical disadvantages, yet I couldn’t bring myself to regret this particular weakness. Instead, I allowed my thumb to trace small circles against her hand—a gesture hidden from others but meaningful between us.
The jet engines changed pitch as we reached the start of the runway, and the jet accelerated.
We quickly gained altitude, the slight pressure shift barely noticeable.
Vince waited until we settled into cruising altitude before he leaned forward, elbows on knees, in the universal posture of a man getting down to business. “We need to discuss this…situation,” he said, gesturing between Shorty and me with barely disguised contempt.
My muscles tensed imperceptibly as my body prepared for conflict, but I shoved everything down and kept my mind as calm and analytical as possible.
This wasn’t personal. Vince would give every man the third degree who dared to date one of his sisters. Sure, I was probably the worst choice possible.
“There’s not much to discuss,” I replied, meeting his gaze directly, my expression neutral but firm. “Isabella made her choice, and we are together.”
Vince’s jaw tightened visibly, a pulse throbbing at his temple. His hands flexed once before he controlled them—the motion of a man wanting to reach for a weapon that wasn’t there.
“You kidnapped her, Zotov,” he stated, each word precise and cutting. “Then you fucked her. Now you think you own her?” He scoffed. “Not happening.”
The crude phrasing was deliberately provocative—a test of my control. I felt Shorty tense beside me, her breath catching as she opened her mouth to interject.
I squeezed her hand gently, a silent request for patience. My heartbeat remained steady despite the provocation. This was my battle to fight—at least this part of it.
“I don’t own her,” I stated with quiet certainty, keeping my voice level despite the anger simmering beneath the surface. “No one does. But I fell in love with her. And she’s chosen to give me a chance despite our beginning. We’ve chosen each other.”
The simple truth silenced the cabin momentarily. I’d spent my life in shadows and half-truths, but with Shorty, the clearest truth felt like the strongest position. I watched my words land, noted how Matt’s eyes narrowed slightly while Jemma and Fee shifted subtly closer, ready to support if needed.
Vince leaned forward, his voice dropping to a level meant to exclude the others. “You are not good enough for her.”
The words struck with unexpected force—not because they were meant to wound but because they were spot-on. I absorbed the impact without showing any reaction.
“You’re right,” I conceded without hesitation, surprising him and Shorty, whose head turned sharply toward me. “But I have a lifetime to prove my worth.”
My easy agreement seemed to throw Vince off balance. He blinked once, recalibrating his approach. Before hecould respond, Matt seized the opening from across the aisle.
“Convenient timing,” he observed coolly. “Get our help to disentangle yourself from the Paraskia, and we’re supposed to believe you’re not using her to get what you want?”
The accusation burned like acid, more potent because it contained a kernel of truth—our relationship had indeed collided with my plan for the future of my family. I felt a muscle tick in my jaw before I could control it.
“There was nothing convenient about any of this,” I replied, my voice dropping to a dangerous register despite my efforts to remain diplomatic.
Shorty shifted closer in silent support, her thigh pressing more firmly against mine. The warmth of her body against mine centered me, helped me control the anger that threatened my carefully maintained façade.
“And what about Grey?” Vince asked, watching my reaction with careful assessment.
Grey’s name acted like a trigger, sending ice through my veins. I controlled my breathing deliberately, maintaining an outward calm that belied the storm of rage, betrayal, and hatred the name evoked.
“Grey is done,” I stated with deadly calm. “Even though I should be grateful to him.”
Three identical expressions of shock—Vince’s, Matt’s, and even Shorty’s—reflected back at me as if I’d suddenly started speaking in Russian.
The silence in the cabin was deafening.
Shit. I should’ve kept my mouth shut. I never asked Shorty how much, if any of it, her brothers knew, and how much she wanted them to know. But it was too late now.
And honesty was my strongest tactical approach. “Your sister and I have a shared history none of us knew about until recently,” I began, gauging their reactions carefully.
Vince’s expression shifted to wary interest while Shorty’s hand tightened around mine—encouragement to continue? Or was she telling me to stop? I glanced at her and she nodded.
“Isabella saved my life fifteen years ago,” I stated simply. “Saved all of our lives. We didn’t know it was her until just days ago.”
