38. Axel
38
AXEL
F reedom sits thirty feet ahead of us, strapped into the body of this rickety twin-engine. The pilot, some greasy-haired guy Gary vouched for, keeps glancing nervously between his instruments and the runway.
We’ve barely settled into our seats when the radio crackles.
“Unidentified aircraft at Sawyer’s Field, this is Sheriff Department. Maintain position. Do not, I repeat, do not attempt takeoff.”
The pilot’s Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows hard. “I can’t do this,” he mutters, reaching for the radio.
Before his fingers touch the dial, my Glock presses against his temple.
“Yes, you absolutely can.” I keep my voice even, almost friendly. “And you will.”
His eyes dart to the blue and red lights flashing in the distance.
“They’ll shoot us down,” he whimpers.
“Not if we’re already gone.” I dig the barrel deeper. “Now.”
Willow’s breath catches behind me. Though I can’t see her face, I feel her tension filling the cabin.
“Axel...” Tommy warns, leaning forward from the back seat.
The pilot’s hands tremble on the controls. Outside, tires screech on the tarmac as the first police cruiser skids onto the airstrip.
“For fuck’s sake.” I grab the gun by the barrel, spin it around, and shove it into Willow’s hands. “Keep this against his head. If he stops, pull the trigger.”
Her eyes widen but she takes it, knuckles white around the grip.
I reach behind the seat for the hunting rifle I stashed there—a beat-up Remington I found mounted above the fireplace at the cabin. Not pretty, but it’ll do.
I slide open the side window as the engine finally roars to life. The plane lurches forward, picking up speed.
“That’s it. Keep going,” I tell the pilot as I chamber a round.
The cruiser accelerates toward us, attempting to cut across our path. I steady my breathing and squeeze the trigger. The rifle kicks against my shoulder, and the cruiser’s front tire explodes in a spray of rubber. It fishtails wildly before spinning out.
“Don’t stop,” I order, already chambering another round. “Don’t you fucking stop.”
I line up the shot with practiced ease despite the plane’s vibrations. A second cruiser swerves, trying to block our path, but I’ve got him locked in my sights.
“Not today, fuckers.”
My second shot hits the rear tire with surgical precision. The cruiser fishtails violently, spinning across the runway before flipping sideways. The momentum carries it, rolling twice before settling into a crumpled, smoking heap.
The plane picks up speed, rattling beneath us as we hurtle down the airstrip. Through the scope, I catch a glimpse of the officer crawling from the wreckage, dazed but alive. Good. I don’t need more bodies on my conscience today.
“Jesus, Axel,” Tommy mutters from behind me.
I lower the rifle and catch Willow’s wide-eyed stare, gun still pressed against the pilot’s head.
“You can ease up, little pixie.” I tap her wrist gently. “Unless he tries something stupid.”
The pilot is too busy now, hands flying across the controls as we reach takeoff speed. The nose lifts, and suddenly, we’re airborne, the small plane lurching upward with a stomach-dropping surge.
Through the back window, I spot a convoy of vehicles pouring onto the runway—county sheriff, state police, and even what looks like SWAT. Too fucking late.
“They’re here,” Tommy announces unnecessarily, pressed against his window.
“Higher,” I order the pilot. “Get us above their range.”
He complies without argument, sending us climbing steeply into the thin morning air. Below, tiny figures spill from vehicles, some raising what must be guns, but we’re already too high. Even with scopes, they’d need to be exceptional marksmen to hit a moving aircraft at this distance.
The plane banks east, away from the rising sun, and I finally relax. The rush of adrenaline sustaining me begins to ebb, leaving behind a profound stillness—not the quiet of peace—the quiet of survival.
I glance at Willow. Her hair is wild, her face smudged with dirt, and her eyes still electric with fear and exhilaration. But she’s smiling—somehow, impossibly, she’s smiling.
I hand the gun to Tommy, never taking my eyes off the horizon.
“Keep this on him. If he tries anything stupid, shoot him.”
Tommy nods, his face grim but determined as he takes the weapon. The kid’s grown a spine since we broke out. Good. He’ll need it.
My blood still burns with adrenaline, the thrill of the escape coursing through me like electricity. But there’s something else, too—a hunger that’s been building since we lifted off.
“Come here,” I demand, grabbing Willow’s wrist and pulling her toward the back of the plane.
The small aircraft has a rear section separated by a half-wall—four leather seats facing each other across a narrow table bolted to the floor. It’s not private, but I couldn’t care less.
Willow’s eyes widen as I pull her down onto my lap, her back against my chest. “Axel, they can see?—”
I silence her with my mouth on hers, one hand tangling in her hair while the other slides under her shirt. She tastes like freedom.
“Let them,” I whisper against her ear, feeling her shiver. “I want them to see who truly possesses you.”
Willow makes soft sounds as I pull her shirt up. Her skin is pale in the dim light, marked with bruises from our escape—badges of honor I trace with my fingers.
I can see Tommy’s shoulders tense as he deliberately keeps his eyes forward. The pilot’s gaze flicks over his shoulder once before Tommy adjusts the gun barrel against his ribs.
“Eyes on the sky,” Tommy orders him.
Willow turns in my lap, straddling me now, her eyes dark pools making her look fucking ethereal with the blush spreading across her cheeks.
“You still with me?” I murmur, gripping her hips hard enough to bruise.
She nods, biting her lip as she grinds against me. “Always.”
The plane hits turbulence, jolting us, but I hold her steady. Nothing matters now but this—not the cops we left behind, not the uncertain future ahead. Just Willow’s body against mine as I claim her, marking her as mine.
I grab the waistband of Willow’s pants, never breaking eye contact as I start pulling them down. Her blue eyes widen with that perfect concoction of fear and hunger I’ve grown addicted to.
“Lift up,” I command, my voice rough with need.
She obeys instantly, rising slightly on her knees to let me slide the fabric down her thighs. The plane jolts through another patch of turbulence, and she grabs my shoulders to steady herself.
“Good girl,” I murmur, rewarding her with a bite to her exposed neck that makes her whimper.
Her pants catch around her ankles, and I growl in frustration, yanking harder until they’re free. I toss them aside, not caring where they land in the cramped cabin. Her panties are simple black cotton—practical, not fancy—but seeing them on her drives me wild anyway.
“These too.” I hook my fingers under the elastic, deliberately dragging my knuckles against her dripping pussy.
Willow gasps, her hips jerking forward involuntarily. “Axel...”
I tear the thin fabric down her legs, not gentle anymore. Can’t be gentle. Need her too fucking much.
My violent nature has gone completely silent. No raging, no urges for destruction. Just a single-minded focus on claiming what’s mine.
“I need you to look at me,” I demand when her eyes flutter closed.
She does, pupils blown wide. Her thighs quiver as she hovers above me, waiting. My hands grip her hips hard enough to leave bruises—marks that will remind her who she belongs to.
“Say it.” My fingers dig deeper into her soft skin. “Tell me who you belong to.”
“You,” she proclaims, her voice breaking. “Only you, Axel.”
Something possessive roars through me at her words. I release one hip long enough to unzip my pants, the sound obscenely loud in the small space.
“Mine,” I growl, positioning her above me. “Every fucking inch of you is mine.”
I position her above me, so close I could scream with need. The plane shudders through another patch of turbulence. Still, I barely notice—my entire world has narrowed to Willow.
We both gasp as I fill her. Her walls clench around me, hot and tight and perfect. We’re frozen like that for a moment. Her blue eyes are frantic, full of need for me.
“Feel that?” I ask, keeping my voice low enough that only she can hear me. “This is what freedom feels like.”
She nods, unable to speak, as I grip her hips and guide her into a slow rhythm. The tiny movements of the plane add to the sensation, each bump and dip intensifying the friction between us.
There’s only Willow. Only this moment, suspended miles above the earth. Only the feeling of finally, finally being free.
I slide one hand up her back, tangling my fingers in her hair. I pull, forcing her head back to expose the pale column of her throat. The marks I left earlier are already darkening into bruises—my claim on her skin for anyone to see.
I guide Willow’s hips in a slow, torturous rhythm, watching her bite her lip to stifle the sounds threatening to escape. There’s something fucking intoxicating about taking her like this—out in the open with Tommy and the pilot just feet away, backs rigid as they pretend not to hear what’s happening.
“Eyes forward,” I remind Tommy when his head starts to turn at the sound of Willow’s muffled moan. He snaps back to attention immediately. Smart kid.
The knowledge that we’re being deliberately ignored only heightens everything. The tension in the cabin is thick enough to cut.
“They can hear everything,” I purr against Willow’s ear, feeling her clench around me at my words. “Every sound you make. Every slick slide of me inside you.”
She buries her face in my neck, trying to muffle herself, but I grab her hair and pull her head back.
“No. I want them to hear you. I want them to know exactly what I’m doing to you.”
Her lips part, cheeks rosy with arousal, and that hint of fear that drives me wild surfaces in her eyes. I thrust up harder, making her gasp loudly.
“That’s it,” I growl. “Let them hear how good I make you feel.”
The plane hits another pocket of turbulence, jostling us and driving me deeper. Willow cries out, unable to contain herself, and the sound echoes in the small cabin. Tommy shifts in his seat but keeps the gun steady on the pilot.
The thrill of fucking her with an audience—unwilling as they may be—sends a surge of power through me that’s almost as good as the sex itself. I’ve never been one for rules or propriety. Still, there’s something especially satisfying about claiming what’s mine while others are so close by.