“Because you’re already halfway there.”
The certainty in his voice does things to me that it shouldn’t. Makes me believe him, even though he doesn’t know anything about my situation.
The flight attendant announces that we’ve reached cruising altitude, and the seat belt sign dings off.
Cassian loosens his collar another button, and I force myself not to stare at the sliver of skin it reveals. Not to think about the tattoos I know are hiding under that suit, the ones I foundin grainier photos that looked like they’d been taken from a distance.
“Can I ask you a question?” I say before I can talk myself out of it.
He leans back slightly, whiskey glass balanced on his knee. “Depends on the question.”
“Do you ever do things just because they’re a terrible idea?”
His eyes lock on mine, and the air between us shifts into dangerous territory. My pulse kicks up. This is insane. I’m flirting with Cassian Rourke at thirty-five thousand feet while he has no idea I’m a Vance, and the wrongness of it makes me feel more alive than I have in months.
Maybe years.
He sets his glass aside and turns toward me, closing the space between us just enough that I can feel the heat coming off him. “What’s your name?”
“Catherine,” I lie.
“Catherine,” he repeats, like he’s testing how it sounds. Then he offers his hand. “Cassian.”
I take it. His grip is firm, warm, and when his thumb brushes over my knuckles, I feel it everywhere.
We don’t let go right away.
The plane hits turbulence. It’s not bad, just enough to make the cabin jostle and the seat belt sign ding back on, but my free hand shoots out to grip the armrest on instinct.
Cassian’s other hand covers mine before I can process what’s happening. “Easy,” he says, his voice steady and calm. “Just rough air. You’re fine.”
But I’m not fine. His hand is still on mine, solid and reassuring, and the way he’s looking at me makes my skin feel too tight.
The turbulence evens out, but he doesn’t pull away immediately.
Neither do I.
When he finally lets go, the absence of his touch feels like a loss. “You really are nervous,” he says, and there’s amusement in his voice but not cruelty.
“I told you. Today’s different.”
I meet his eyes, and the question I see there is layered.
“What are you running from, Catherine?”
I smile behind my mask and lean in just slightly. “What makes you think I’m running?”
2
CASSIAN
She’s lying.
Or at least, she’s avoiding giving me a real answer. I can tell the moment the words leave her mouth that she’s running from her old life, a life she says she never wanted, and normally I’d let it go because everyone on this plane is running from something.
I lean back in my seat, swirling the whiskey in my glass while I study her. She’s young, mid-twenties at most, with black hair that looks recently dyed if the slightly uneven roots are anything to go by. Blue eyes that don’t quite match the rest of her features, like they’re trying too hard to be noticed. Colored contacts, probably.
The mask hides most of her face, but I can see enough. Sharp cheekbones, a mouth that curves when she thinks I’m not watching, and hands that won’t stop moving.
