Total pages in book: 57
Estimated words: 54871 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 274(@200wpm)___ 219(@250wpm)___ 183(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 54871 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 274(@200wpm)___ 219(@250wpm)___ 183(@300wpm)
"Sleep," he says.
I sleep.
I sleep for a very long time because the next thing I know, there's that familiar, unmistakable sensation of falling—the subtle shift in pressure and gravity that signals descent.
My stomach dips slightly, and my ears pop as the plane begins dropping altitude. I don't even remember taking off. Don't remember the engines roaring to life, or the acceleration down the runway, or the moment the wheels left the ground.
Just the warm circle of his arms around me and then... nothing.
Blessed, dreamless nothing.
And now... I'm alone. The warm weight of him is gone from behind me. The space where his body pressed against mine feels cool now, empty.
I blink slowly, disoriented, my mind still foggy with sleep. The hum of the engines has changed pitch, a lower, descending whine that confirms what my body already knows—we're going to land.
The plane isn't that big, so when I push myself up on one elbow and lean over the side of the bed, I can see down the narrow aisle that runs through the cabin.
His legs are stretched out in a seat near the front of the plane—dark trousers, expensive leather shoes crossed at the ankle. The relaxed posture of someone completely at ease. I think he's talking on the phone, his voice a low murmur I can't quite make out over the drone of the engines, but I can see one hand gesturing slightly as he speaks.
The descent is sharper now, more pronounced—my ears pop again and I have to swallow to clear the pressure. And then we're touching down, the wheels hitting the runway with that jarring double-thump that always makes my heart skip. I struggle to sit up properly, pushing tangled hair out of my face as I twist to look out the small oval window beside the bed.
The unmasked man appears at my side, materializing from the front of the cabin with that silent, purposeful grace I'm starting to recognize as distinctly his.
I look up at him, my brain still sluggish and slow, my thoughts not quite connecting properly. "Shouldn't you have your seatbelt on?" my mouth asks without my brain's permission, the question coming out flat and automatic, like I'm reading lines from a script I don't remember learning.
He smiles down at me, and there's something warm in his expression that I can't quite process right now, something that feels too genuine for this entire surreal situation. "Did you have a nice rest?"
The plane jerks suddenly, engines screaming in reverse thrust as we decelerate hard down the runway, and I have to brace one hand against the wall to keep from pitching forward. I nod in response to his question because words feel like too much effort.
"Good," he says, and his smile widens, showing teeth, reaching his eyes in a way that makes him look almost boyish despite the expensive suit and the overwhelming presence he carries. "I've got a limo waiting." He jerks his head toward the tarmac outside the window, where I can just make out the sleek black shape of a car gleaming in what looks like late afternoon sunlight. "You'll be home in thirty minutes."
Home. The word echoes strangely in my chest, hollow and foreign. I don't know what home even means anymore. It's been so long since I had a fucking home, the word feels like something ancient. Something lost.
I smile back at the unmasked man anyway, the expression pulling at my face like I'm wearing someone else's skin. Nodding again because it's easier than speaking, easier than trying to untangle the knot of confusion, and exhaustion, and lingering disorientation in my head. "Thanks."
The plane shudders to a complete stop, the whine of the engines dropping to a lower idle, and he reaches down to help me disentangle from the blankets.
His hands are gentle but firm, pulling the soft cashmere away from where it's twisted around my legs, and then he's steadying me, his palm against my lower back as I stand on shaky legs and start walking toward the exit.
My body feels disconnected, like I'm piloting it from a distance—one foot in front of the other, down the narrow aisle past the galley and the seats he'd been occupying earlier.
The door at the front of the cabin is already open, late afternoon light spilling in along with a rush of cool air.
He holds my elbow as we descend the stairs, his grip supportive without being controlling. At the bottom, there's smooth tarmac under my feet, and the black limousine is waiting about twenty feet away.
The unmasked man walks me to it with that same steady hand on my elbow, opens the door, and waits while I duck my head and slide across the buttery leather seat. The windows are tinted so dark, the world outside looks dim and distant.
He settles in beside me, pulling the door shut with a solid, final thunk that seals us into the quiet, climate-controlled space.