think about waking him, about stealing him back into consciousness just so I don’t feel so alone in the rush of sky around us, but I can’t. He needs this. I’ll hold still as long as it takes.
Even with a former Navy pilot in the cockpit, sleep hasn’t touched me. My body is too wired, my mind too full. But being next to him—being near his warmth—makes me feel safe enough that I don’t need rest.
The door to the private suite opens, and the flight attendant leans in to tell us we are beginning our descent into JFK. The words plant a knot of nerves low in my stomach, heavy and twisting. I don’t even realize how tightly I am gripping the armrest until he stirs against me.
“Hi, gorgeous,” Alek mumbles, eyes still closed, his voice rough with sleep. His arms find their way around me, pulling me in until I can feel the steady beat of his heart against my side. His warmth spreads into me, and for a moment it drowns out the weight in my gut, even when the jet dips down like some wild, mechanical beast tearing through air.
We land with a jolt that sends a vibration through the cabin. As the plane taxis toward the private hangar, the hum of the engines fades into something quieter, and with it comes a heaviness I didn’t expect. The door folds open, and the first breath of city air hits me like a wall. It is heavier than I remember, thick and grim, like the end of a dream. It clings to my skin and tastes like concrete and sirens, like something is already trying to pull us back down into the dirt. Maybe it’s just the city’s way of whispering that the honeymoon is over. Or maybe, out there past the tarmac, it’s something else entirely—something waiting.
The attendants move with quiet efficiency, lifting bags from the jet and passing them to the waiting black SUV. Home is only a drive away. I should feel relieved. Instead, there’s a sharp edge in the air, a tension that clings like static.
Alek comes down last. He takes the stairs slowly, but before his feet touch the tarmac his posture shifts. His gaze fixes on the horizon, shoulders tightening under his jacket. He isn’t looking at me. He’s watching for something.
Curiosity pulls at me like a string. Just before I step into the SUV, I follow the line of his focus. That’s when I see them—three NYPD cruisers, lights slicing across the air, and a heavy police van behind them, all closing in fast. Their sirens wail louder with every heartbeat, a sound that claws at my spine.
Panic unfurls inside me, sharp and blinding. My brain leaps ahead, running through a dozen ways to move, to hide, to run. But Alek doesn’t move. He stands there, not even fully clear of the plane, as if carved out of the wind. Calm. Patient.
I step forward, intent on putting myself at his side. I don’t care what’s coming. If he faces it, I face it.
Then he glances back at me—just one glance—and gives the smallest shake of his head. That’s all. It’s enough. My feet root to the ground.
This is his fight, not mine.
The patrol cars screech to a stop, boxing in the jet and the SUV. The van slides into the hangar in reverse, its back doors swinging wide to spill out four SWAT officers, heavy gear clanking. More cops fan out from the cruisers, hands not on their guns yet, but close. Ready.
The detectives come last. They don’t run. They don’t shout. They walk.
The first—tall, dark hair streaked with silver—moves like a man who’s seen everything twice and stopped being impressed by any of it. His partner, a younger woman gripping a notepad like it’s her lifeline, trails behind him, trying to keep up.
“Lily Walters?” the older one asks, tone flat, almost disinterested.
“Petrov,” I correct automatically, even as Aleksandr pulls me closer to his side like he already knows something’s wrong.
“Who’s asking?” Aleksandr’s reply is sharp, eyes narrowed like he is prepared to rip this guy’s throat out.
The detective holds up his badge. “I’m Detective Toscani. This is Detective Young. NYPD. You’re under arrest on suspicion of the murder of Officer Lyon, of the Nineteenth Precinct.”
The words slam into me like a punch.
Murder.
I freeze, the pulse thudding in my ears, while the rookie detective steps forward and starts to reach for me with shaking hands and a pair of cuffs.
“Don’t put a finger on her!” Aleksandr surges toward me, but three officers intercept him instantly.
“You’re arresting her?! For what?!” His voice is pure chaos—raw, animal. “You don’t touch her! You don’tfuckingtouch her!”
The hangar goes still.
“An officer saw her entering the crime scene,” Detective Toscani says, and my eyes flicker up to the smug look on Detective Young’s face. Dahlia, her name is Dahlia; she’s the witness. I want to crawl into myself and cry, scream. I was never supposed to be arrested. I was never supposed to…fuck. I’m the one going to jail.
Officers tighten around him, shouting commands, but he doesn’t care. He jerks against their grip, fighting to reach me, and for one terrible second, I think they’ll draw their weapons.
“No, this is bullshit,” His voice slices through the noise, hoarse and frantic.
I can’t. I can’t even breathe. The cuffs snap closed around my wrists. Cold metal bites into my skin.
“Lily!” Aleksandr snaps and my eyes lock with his, forcing me out of the spiral and into his madness. “Fight, you hear me? You keep your head up and you don’t say a word.”
