I load the car while Sadie does one final check of the apartment, her movements precise and efficient. Triple-checking the locks. Testing the windows. Familiar rituals that I now understand aren't paranoia but survival.
The drive to the private airfield takes twenty-eight minutes. I keep one hand on the wheel, the other on my phone, tracking our route. Sadie sits rigid beside me, eyes constantly checking the mirrors. In the back, Poppy babbles happily, oblivious to the tension.
No one follows us. The roads are clear, the morning bright and cold. When we pull through the security gate at the airfield, I feel Sadie exhale slightly.
"We're okay," I tell her, reaching for her hand. "Almost there."
The Gulfstream G650 waits on the tarmac, gleaming white against the gray concrete. Two men in dark suits stand at attention near the stairs—our security detail. Professional. Discreet. Heavily armed beneath those tailored jackets.
"That's… yours?" Sadie asks, eyes wide as she takes in the private jet.
"Family's," I correct, pulling up to the hangar. "One of the few perks of being a Slade I actually use."
Cold mountain air hits us as we exit the car. Poppy whimpers at the temperature change, burying her face against Sadie's neck. I step closer, instinctively shielding them both from the wind as the security team approaches.
"Mr. Slade," the taller one says with a nod. "Everything's ready. Pilot's completed pre-flight checks. We're clear for takeoff."
"Thanks, Jensen." I make quick introductions, watching Sadie's face carefully as she sizes up the men who will be responsible for our safety. Her posture remains tight, guarded, but she nods politely.
Loading proceeds with military precision. The security team transfers our bags while I help Sadie install Poppy's car seatin the cabin. The plane's engines hum to life, a low vibration beneath our feet as fuel pumps and electronics power up.
"Last chance to back out," I tell her quietly once Poppy’s seat is secured. "Say the word and we stay here."
She straightens, meeting my eyes directly. "No. We finish this."
Inside the cabin, Sadie settles Poppy into her seat, meticulously checking the straps while I confer with the pilot about our flight path and expected weather.
When I return to the main cabin, Sadie is staring out the window, her profile etched with tension. Poppy has already dozed off, tiny fingers curled around the stuffed rabbit Sadie brought from home.
"We're ready when you are," I tell her, taking the seat beside her.
She turns to me, determination hardening her features. "Let's go."
I signal to the flight attendant, who secures the cabin door with a heavy metallic thunk. The sound is final, decisive. There's no turning back now.
As the engines power up to full thrust, I look at Sadie beside me, at Poppy sleeping peacefully across from us. Fierce, protective love envelops me. That feeling still surprises me with its intensity. These two have become my world in a matter of weeks.
The jet begins to taxi, picking up speed as we hurtle down the runway. Sadie's hand finds mine, fingers intertwining as the wheels leave the ground. We're airborne, committed to whatever comes next.
This ends in Oregon, I think, as the ground falls away beneath us. One way or another, this ends now.
Chapter 27
Sadie
The vibration of the plane moves through my body, a constant reminder that I'm trapped in the air, hurtling toward the place I swore I'd never return to. The leather seat beneath me is buttery soft, the cabin temperature perfect, but I can't relax. My muscles stay coiled, ready for a threat that isn't here yet.
"Try to rest," Axel says, his voice low enough not to wake Poppy. She's finally drifted off after the excitement of takeoff woke her back up, her car seat securely strapped into the custom mounting bracket that appeared as if by magic when we boarded.
"I'm fine," I reply automatically, the lie so practiced it feels like truth.
Axel doesn't challenge me, just reaches for a cashmere blanket folded in the compartment beside him. He drapes it over my lap, his movements careful, deliberate.
"I'm not cold," I tell him, but I don't push the blanket away. The weight of it is oddly grounding, like the pressure vests they use for anxious dogs during thunderstorms.
"I know."
His hand claims my thigh, the heat of his palm burning straight through the blanket, through every layer of my defenses. He’s not asking, not offering comfort—he just takes, like it’s his right. I can’t stop staring at those fingers, remembering the way they dug into my hips as he drove into me, the way he held my face when I shattered around him, the same hands that make me ache now, even with my daughter sleeping ten feet away. That electric contrast, gentle one moment, relentless the next, makes me want him even more.
