Chapter 33
Sin
As soon as we’re onboard the private jet, Jules takes my phone off me and refuses to give it back.
“Hey.” I swipe at her, trying to get it off her.
“What? Do you have a ton of messages to respond to or something?” She shoots me a flat look, like she already knows the answer.
Besides Elara and her daily updates on her ever-increasing brood of dogs, everyone I would even consider messaging is right here with me.
“I just like having it on me,” I mutter.
We both know it’s a lie. My fingers are itching to scroll through more of the comments, to see what people who don’t know me are saying.
It’s the worst kind of curiosity. One that I know would eat me from the inside if I let it. And I have enough of the Herald’s vitriol and bullshit stuck in my head already. So I guess it’s a good thing I can’t spend the next few hours doomscrolling through the dozens of articles already published that have my picture plastered all over them.
Every time I think about my face being out there, my stomach cramps and my hands start to shake. The press might not have connected my name with my picture yet—at the minute I’m only the faceless woman plastered all over all four band members—but it’s only a matter of time until they discover my identity.
Whether they uncover my past at the same time is a whole other issue.
There’s also the minor issue of this whole thing being proof of life. If the Herald sees the pictures, he’ll know that not only have rumors of my death been exaggerated, but also exactly where to find me.
That man has the power to fuck up my reputation, and my future all in one fell swoop.
You’re mine, darling Saint. You should remember that. I’ll always be here, watching over you. Ensuring you don’t step away from The Path.
Heading for a couch at the far corner of the plane, I sit with my legs tucked up as I try to work through the unease and anxiety that’s formed a knot in my gut since I saw those pictures.
Thankfully, no one pushes me to talk to them. And after about an hour of fretting by myself, Dorian plops himself beside me with Micah’s cuff on his wrist. He grasps my hand in his and we sit together quietly.
I appreciate the space and silent support more than he can possibly know. Right now, I need to work through all the messy thoughts going through my head.
It’s not like I didn’t know what I was getting into by getting involved with the guys.
Kind of, anyway.
I guess at some point I stopped thinking about who they are to other people. How big a deal they are.
I guess this is my first taste of the less shiny side of fame.
I’ve already experienced the fancy hotel rooms, the private jets, the staff on call at all hours. Now, I’m getting the full experience. People talking about us like they know us, invading our privacy, wanting a piece of the guys and not caring how they get it.
I stroke my finger along Dorian’s callused palm and I feel him gently squeezing me back, shooting me a lazy smile. Snuggling down in my seat, I rest my head on his shoulder and close my eyes.
The flight is long. Over eight hours. And while I kill the first half alternating between brooding and snoozing, eventually my bladder drags me away and I have to disentangle my fingers from Dorian’s. He’s fallen asleep, his head resting on the back of the chair, and I take a second to gaze at him softly, no doubt with a sappy expression on my face.
I didn’t miss how he saved us all last night. It was clear how uncomfortable he was with his powers, and yet he used them without hesitation to protect us all.
My skin crawls at the memory of all of those people clawing at us like mindless zombies.
Things could have gotten pretty nasty if he hadn’t been there.
I catch Micah’s eye as I head to the back of the plane. He glances over at Dorian and then shoots me a smile and a wink that flips my stomach over.
While I’m in the bathroom, I decide that Dorian really should have his own version of Micah’s cuff, just in case they both need comforting at the same time. I head back to my seat, ready to get to work but I’m distracted by the hissed argument going on at the other side of the cabin. It looks like Iri and Jules are having a furious argument at a level barely above a whisper.
I pad over to them and they abruptly cut off as they spot me, causing a lick of unease to travel up my spine. Jules’s fists are clenched and blanched white, and Iri is looking at her with his dark eyes narrowed, like he’s two seconds away from chucking her out the window.
