Chapter 8
CHAPTER EIGHT
Artyom
Sleep never lasts long on planes. The sound is constant—engines, air pressure, men pretending to work when they’re really watching me from the corners of their eyes. Still, I half-drift. Head back, one hand over my chest, the other on the armrest between me and her.
Kira sits beside me, too still to be comfortable. She’s holding a glass of water with both hands like it’s the only thing keeping her anchored. The jet is quiet, my men talking low near the cockpit, Calina scrolling through her photos, Milana asleep with headphones on.
Kira’s reflection flickers in the dark window.
I don’t think she realizes I’m awake. There’s a crease between her brows that hasn’t left since takeoff.
She keeps staring out as if she can bargain with gravity.
I can almost feel the tension in her body—rigid spine, fingers tapping the glass, breath measured like she’s fighting panic.
I shouldn’t care. Fear makes people manageable. But something about the way she hides it irritates me. She doesn’t want anyone to see her weakness, not even me. That makes me curious.
“Boss.”
Lev’s voice cuts through the hum. I open my eyes fully and turn my head. He’s standing at the edge of the aisle with a phone in hand, face tight.
“What?”
“Message from the Russians.”
He doesn’t say more until I hold out my hand. The screen glows with encrypted text—updates from our people in Sicily. The Italians confirmed the meeting arrangements. Then the second line makes my jaw tighten.
Irina Petrova and Boris Petrov will attend.
Of course they will. My father couldn’t resist stirring the pot. He knows Boris won’t forgive me for humiliating him, and Irina will take every opportunity to remind me of what I turned down.
“Fuck.” I rub a hand over my face.
Lev lowers his voice. “You want me to adjust the hotel booking? Separate floors?”
“No. We’ll stay where we are.” I glance toward the window. “If Boris wants to make a scene, I’ll give him one in front of everyone.”
Lev nods but lingers. “And Irina?”
“She won’t be a problem.”
He hesitates, then slips the phone into his pocket. “Copy that.”
I lean back again, eyes closing for a moment, letting the low vibration of the plane fill the silence. But the peace is gone. My mind’s already in Sicily—calculations, alliances, the way Boris will use that room to test my control.
When I open my eyes, Kira’s watching me. She must’ve caught my reaction to the message. Her eyes flick away quickly, pretending to study the clouds.
“Something wrong?” she asks, too polite.
“Nothing that concerns you.”
She mutters something under her breath. I catch only the word typical.
I tilt my head. “What was that?”
“Nothing,” she says, still looking at the window.
The corner of my mouth lifts. “You really should work on lying. It’s painful to watch.”
“I wasn’t lying.”
“You always are,” I say quietly. “You think if you say less, I’ll stop noticing. You forget what I do for a living.”
That earns me a glare. “You analyze people, you don’t understand them.”
“And you think you do?”
Her chin lifts. “I work in an ER. I see more of humanity in a week than you do in a lifetime.”
“Humanity,” I repeat, almost amused. “That’s what you call it?”
She exhales sharply and turns back to the window. The muscles in her jaw tighten. She’s trying to keep her composure, but turbulence chooses that moment to hit—sharp and sudden.
The plane lurches hard enough to rattle the silverware.
Calina’s asleep against the window again, Milana curled under a blanket on the opposite couch, their quiet breathing swallowed by the drone of the engines, but Kira—she goes completely still.
Her glass tips, water spilling over her lap in a cold splash that darkens the fabric of her jeans.
She grips the armrest like it’s the only thing anchoring her to this world, knuckles bloodless, shoulders locked.
For a second, I see it all—the fear she’s trying so desperately to hide, the quick swallow, the trembling breath, the way her teeth catch her lower lip until it almost breaks skin.
She’s terrified, and it hits me harder than it should. Not because of the fear itself, but because she’s trying so hard to bury it. That kind of honesty, when someone’s stripped down to the rawest version of themselves without meaning to, is rare. And strangely, I find I can’t look away.
“Relax,” I say, my voice deliberately calm, light enough to sound almost teasing. “It’s just air.”
Her eyes flash toward me, sharp and furious even through the panic. “Easy for you to say. You don’t mind sitting in a flying tin can that feels like it’s about to fall out of the sky.”
I lean back, mouth twitching. “A fifty-ton metal shell, moving six hundred miles an hour over the ocean. What could possibly go wrong?”
“Stop,” she snaps, squeezing her eyes shut as another jolt ripples through the cabin. “God, you’re an ass.”
“Probably,” I admit, resting my elbow on the armrest between us. “But if I keep you angry, you’ll forget to be scared.”
Her head turns, slowly, like she can’t decide whether to hit me or argue. “That’s your idea of comfort? Pissing me off?”
“It’s effective,” I say simply.
She opens one eye, the look she gives me somewhere between fury, disbelief, and reluctant amusement. “You’re impossible.”
“I prefer efficient,” I say.
“Efficient?” she repeats, eyebrows arching. “You’re literally mocking turbulence.”
I shrug. “Distraction works. Ask any interrogator.”
Her jaw drops. “Oh my God, do you compare everything to interrogation?”
“Only the situations that make people talk,” I say, meeting her glare head-on. “And you, nurse, talk plenty when you’re nervous.”
Her mouth opens, then closes again as if she’s about to deny it, but the next small drop makes the plane tremble and she mutters something I can’t quite hear—something that sounds a lot like “unbelievable psycho.”
I smile to myself, the sound of her voice cutting through the hum of the engines, grounding me more than it should.
The plane steadies. She exhales, long and shaky. I catch the faint tremor still running through her hand. Without thinking, I reach out. My fingers brush hers on the armrest, just enough for her to notice.
The next jolt comes sharper, like the sky itself just dropped a warning.
The cabin trembles, glasses rattle in their holders, and Kira’s breath catches hard enough that I hear it over the engines.
She reacts before she even knows what she’s doing—her hand shoots across the small space between us and finds mine, fingers latching tight, her nails pressing lightly into my skin.
It’s instinct, pure and terrified, and it hits me with the kind of force no weapon ever has.
For a second, I go completely still. I’ve had guns jammed against my ribs, knives graze my throat, explosions tear the ground from under me, but nothing—nothing—has ever made me freeze the way her touch does.
Her palm is small, trembling, warm in a way that feels human in a life that hasn’t felt human in years. She doesn’t even realize what she’s done, doesn’t see how her hand clings to mine like I’m the only thing solid in a world that’s falling apart.
I should pull away. I should remind her who I am and what she’s gotten herself into, but I don’t. Instead, I let her hold on. My fingers curl almost involuntarily, not gripping, just resting there, the slightest press back against her skin.
Her pulse beats wild and fast against my wrist, a small, fragile rhythm that doesn’t belong anywhere near someone like me. The faint scent of her shampoo drifts upward, clean and faintly sweet. It slips under my guard, sinks somewhere it shouldn’t, and I hate that I notice it at all.
She opens her eyes a moment later, blinking as if the world just came back into focus.
Then she looks down and sees what she’s done, sees her fingers tangled with mine.
I feel the exact instant realization hits her because her breath stutters and she starts to pull away—too quickly, like she’s been burned.
I don’t let her. My thumb moves, barely a shift, pressing lightly against the inside of her wrist. Just enough pressure to remind her I’m still there, to make her stop fighting the contact she started.
“Breathe,” I say quietly.
“I am.”
“No.” My voice drops, steady, certain. “You’re holding it.”
Her eyes flick to mine, searching for mockery, finding none. The light from the window paints her skin in soft gold; her fear makes her look younger, smaller somehow.
“Here,” I say, opening my hand between us. “If it helps.”
She hesitates, then places her hand in mine. Her palm is cold, damp from sweat. I close my fingers around it, not too tightly, just enough to anchor her.
For a moment, we don’t speak. The sound of the engines fades, leaving only the rhythm of her breathing, slow and uneven, trying to match mine.
“It’s just turbulence,” I say finally. “Happens all the time.”
She nods, but her shoulders stay tense. “Aren’t you afraid of anything?”
“Of plenty,” I admit, surprising myself. “Just not this.”
Her lips part slightly, but she says nothing. The plane steadies. I should let go, but I don’t. There’s something fragile about the silence, and breaking it feels wrong.
She looks down at our joined hands, voice small. “You can let go now.”
“I know.”
But I don’t move. My thumb brushes against her knuckles, slow, almost absent. I can feel her pulse beneath the skin, quick and uncertain.
For a while, neither of us says anything. Then she exhales, a faint tremor in the sound. “Your distraction isn’t working anymore.”
My gaze finds hers again, steady, unguarded. “Then I’ll find another way.”
Her brow furrows, confusion darkening her eyes. “What do you mean—”
I don’t let her finish. I lean in, closing the space before reason can stop me, and catch her mouth with mine.