36. Terminal Essentials
Terminal Essentials
~ E LIZABETH~
"I'll be quick," I promise, already heading toward the airport bathroom. "The driver's waiting, right?"
Holmes nods, his visible eye tracking my movement. "Three-hour drive ahead of us. Don't take too long."
The bathroom is blessedly empty when I push through the door, fluorescent lights humming overhead as I make my way to the sinks. My reflection looks about as exhausted as I feel, though there's a telltale flush to my cheeks that has nothing to do with the lingering effects of my almost-Heat.
Thank god for whatever suppressing masterpiece he gave me.
I’m less anxious about having my Heat, but I guess more so about where it’ll happen now, now that we’re in a new destination, I guess it would be okay to experience it as long as I’m with my pack.
To reach this point of recognition and comfortability with the thought means I’ve come a long way accepting that having a Heat doesn’t need to be bad.
I splash cold water on my face, washing away the remnants of airplane makeup before reaching for the small bag of products I'd grabbed from the airport duty-free. The familiar routine of applying foundation, mascara, and a quick swipe of lip gloss helps ground me after the chaos of the flight.
The Lululemon set I change into—simple black leggings and a matching crop top—is a welcome relief after hours in my travel clothes. I twist in front of the mirror, checking the fit, when something catches my eye.
"Are you kidding me?" I mutter, fingers tracing the unmistakable purple mark blooming on my neck. "When did he even?—"
The memory hits me: Holmes's lips on my neck after I'd stumbled back to my seat, exhausted from our bathroom encounter at 37,000 feet. I'd fallen asleep almost immediately, the combination of suppressants and... physical activity. ..leaving me completely drained.
Heat rises to my cheeks as I study the hickey, remembering the way his teeth had grazed my skin, how he'd marked me so deliberately while I was too tired to protest.
Sneaky bastard.
My phone feels awkward in my hand as I gather my things, and with no pockets in these leggings, I do what any self-respecting woman would—slip it into my bra. The complementary tote from the flight becomes a makeshift makeup bag as I start packing away my newly purchased products.
At least I remembered the essentials.
James has my passport—he'd insisted on holding onto it, his nervous flyer tendencies making him extra paranoid about documentation. My favorite YSL lipstick is with Carter, who'd better treat it with the respect it deserves after I'd carefully applied it and entrusted it to his care.
"If you ruin that shade," I'd warned him, "you're buying me a new one. Exact color, Carter. Don't think I won't notice if it's even slightly off."
He'd just grinned, tucking it safely into his jacket pocket like it was precious cargo.
Standing in front of the mirror, I run through a mental checklist of my belongings.
Passport with James.
Lipstick with Carter.
Phone in bra because fashion designers hate women enough to deny us pockets. Makeup in the tote...
"I totally forgot something," I groan, trying to remember what essential item I'm missing.
"You won't need it."
The voice behind me sends ice through my veins because they’re not supposed to be here at all.
Before I can turn — or even scream — I catch a glimpse of a shadowy figure in the mirror's reflection: something hard connects with the back of my head.
The world tilts sideways, colors bleeding into darkness as my knees buckle. The last thing I register is the cold tile floor rushing up to meet me, and a distant thought that Holmes is going to be really pissed about me taking long.
Opps…
Then everything goes black.