Chapter 33 – BELLA
CHAPTER 33
BELLA
" I t's just a private plane," I whisper to myself in the back of the black SUV, fingernails digging half-moons into my palms. "People fly on them every day."
The rational part of my brain knows this is true. The anxious part, however, keeps reminding me that no matter how many times I've flown—commercial or Braxley's luxurious private jets—I still hate every second in the air. Each flight is spent clutching armrests and focusing on breathing exercises to keep from hyperventilating during takeoff.
"You alright back there?" Troy calls from the driver's seat, his blue eyes meeting mine in the rearview mirror.
I force my fingers to unclench. "Fine."
Cole shifts beside me, taking up more than his fair share of the backseat. His thigh presses against mine, warm and solid. He doesn't say anything—words aren't really Cole's thing—but his presence alone steadies my nerves.
"You're a terrible liar," he finally rumbles, quiet enough that only I can hear.
"I am not," I protest weakly, then immediately contradict myself by gnawing at my bottom lip.
Cole's mouth quirks up slightly, glancing at me out of the corner of his eye. "Your heart's racing. I can hear it."
Of course he can. Alpha hearing. And the way his nostrils flare slightly tells me he can probably smell my anxiety too.
"I don't love flying," I admit, keeping my voice down. Admitting weakness has never come easy to me, especially not in a car full of elite former military alphas. "The whole defying-gravity-in-a-metal-tube thing freaks me out."
A large, rough hand settles over mine, calloused fingers dwarfing my own. "Safer than driving," Cole says simply.
"I know that statistically?—"
"Not statistics," he interrupts. "Our jet. Top of the line. Roman wouldn't put his pack in anything less. Triple redundant systems. Savva checks it personally before every flight."
Something about the matter-of-fact way he says it, like it's the most obvious thing in the world, makes me believe him.
"Besides," he adds, voice dropping even lower, "we've got you."
The simple statement shouldn't make my chest feel so full, but it does. I turn my hand beneath his, linking our fingers together. His thumb rubs soothing paths against the back of my hand.
It's admittedly difficult to stay anxious when he's doing that.
Troy pulls the SUV through a security gate, bypassing the main terminals of LAX and heading toward a separate area where sleek private jets sit waiting on the tarmac.
We pass a gleaming white Gulfstream with the Worthington Industries logo emblazoned on the tail. A subtle reminder of what I'm permanently leaving behind at the end of the deadline I gave Braxley. The world of pristine surfaces and carefully curated appearances. The lifestyle I never truly wanted but had resigned myself to.
Two more freaking weeks.
And somehow, I have to make a decision about my entire future where the Vanguard Pack is concerned in that same timeframe.
Troy maneuvers our SUV toward a smaller jet at the far end of the tarmac. It's sleek and matte black with no visible markings or logos, a shadow among the ostentatious private planes surrounding it. If the Worthington jet screams "look at me," this one whispers "you never saw me."
"That's yours?" I ask, unable to keep the surprise from my voice.
"Home sweet home," Troy confirms, pulling up beside it. "Not as flashy as what you're used to, but she gets the job done."
Cole's hand tightens around mine. "Military spec," he says, as if that explains everything. Maybe to him, it does.
My stomach lurches as we come to a stop. Not just from the SUV's movement, but from the reality of what I'm doing. I'm leaving everything behind—my family obligations, my almost-fiancé, the life that had been mapped out for me since I presented as an omega.
And yet, as I look at the black jet waiting on the tarmac, it feels less like running away and more like running toward something. Something that's been missing my entire life.
Roman steps out of the front passenger seat, immediately scanning our surroundings with the practiced vigilance of someone who's survived by anticipating threats. Savva emerges from another SUV that pulls up behind us, followed by Liam, who unfolds his massive tattooed frame from the vehicle.
"Perimeter's clear," Savva says, his refined voice at odds with the security jargon. "Manifest has been approved. We're cleared for immediate departure."
Roman nods. "Let's move. The less time we spend exposed, the better."
The efficiency with which they operate should be comforting. These alphas clearly know what they're doing and have done it countless times before. But all I can focus on is the jet's narrow door and the knowledge that soon I'll be thousands of feet in the air, trapped in a metal tube with nothing but physics keeping us from plummeting to the ground.
Troy pops the trunk and the alphas move in, gathering bags and equipment. I reach for one of my suitcases—still ridiculously new and expensive, a "gift" from Braxley when I first moved into the penthouse—but Liam beats me to it.
"Allow me, lass," he says, hoisting my suitcase like it weighs nothing.
"I can carry my own—" I start to protest, but the words die in my throat when I see all five alphas looking at me with identical expressions of stubborn determination.
Right. Alpha instincts. And apparently, five of them at once means I don't get to carry so much as a handbag.
"Fine," I concede, rolling my eyes to hide how their protectiveness actually makes my heart flutter. "But I'm perfectly capable of carrying things, you know."
"Of course you are," Savva says smoothly, a hint of amusement in his voice. "But why should you have to when we're here?"
"And it makes us happy," Liam interjects, passing my suitcase off to the ramp agent standing by the belly of the jet.
I can't help but laugh, feeling some of the stiffness ease from my shoulders. These alphas may be overprotective, but there's something undeniably comforting about the way they go about showing it.
"Well, when you put it that way," I say, shaking my head with a smile.
As we approach the jet, I try to focus on the solid presence of the alphas around me rather than the knot of anxiety tightening in my stomach. Cole stays close to my side, his frame blocking most of my view of the plane. I'm not sure if it's intentional, but I appreciate it all the same.
The stairs leading up to the jet's door look impossibly steep and narrow. I freeze at the bottom, my palms growing clammy. Last time I'd climbed into a jet, I'd at least had some wine at a dinner party beforehand to dampen my nerves.
"I've got you," Cole murmurs, so quietly I almost miss it.
Before I can respond, he scoops me up in his arms like I weigh nothing at all. I let out an undignified squeak of surprise, my arms automatically looping around his neck.
"Cole!" I protest half-heartedly. "I can walk!"
He grunts, already halfway up the stairs. "Faster this way."
And damn it if he isn't right. We're through the door and into the cabin before I can work up a proper argument. The interior is nothing like Braxley's opulent private jet with its gold fixtures and champagne coolers. This one is sleek and utilitarian, more military transport than luxury liner. It's tight, but not claustrophobic. More like... cozy, if cozy wore kevlar.
As Cole sets me gently on my feet, I find I prefer it. There's something reassuring about the no-nonsense design. No pretense, no excess—just like the alphas themselves.
"Welcome aboard, lass," Liam says, following us inside with my suitcase. "Make yourself at home."
I settle into one of the plush leather seats, trying to ignore the way my heart rate picks up as the rest of the pack files in. Troy immediately heads for the cockpit, while Roman confers quietly with Savva near the door.
Cole takes the seat across from me, his eyes never leaving my face. I wonder if he can hear how fast my pulse is racing. Probably. Stupid alpha hearing.
"You good?" he asks, voice low enough that the others won't hear.
I nod, not quite trusting my voice. My fingers curl around the armrests, already anticipating takeoff.
A warm hand covers the back of mine, and I look up to find Savva sliding into the seat beside me. "Perhaps a distraction is in order," he says smoothly. "How about Sudoku?"
Before I can respond, he produces a slim book of puzzles and a fancy pen from seemingly nowhere. I blink at him, momentarily thrown by the gesture.
"You just... carry those around?" I ask.
Savva's lips quirk up in a small smile. "I might."
I can't help but laugh. "Why am I not surprised?"
Savva's elegant fingers flip open the slim Sudoku book. "Let's start with an easy one, shall we?" he asks, his aristocratic accent turning the words into silk. "Just to warm up. Have you ever played Sudoku?"
I shake my head, grateful for the distraction as the engines begin to rumble beneath us. My fingers tighten on the armrests, but I force myself to focus on the grid of numbers Savva points out.
"Now, the trick is to start with the most obvious placements," he explains, his voice low and soothing. "See here? We know this must be a seven because..."
I let his words wash over me, latching onto the logic of the puzzle as a lifeline. By the time we're taxiing down the runway, I've filled in half the grid and barely noticed the movement.
The takeoff still makes my stomach lurch, but Savva keeps me engaged, asking questions about my strategy and offering gentle hints when I get stuck.
"Well done," he murmurs as I pencil in the final number.
"Thanks," I say, surprised to find I'm actually smiling.
I'm still clutching the Sudoku book as the plane levels out, my fingers gradually unclenching from their death grip on the armrest. I exhale slowly, not realizing I'd been holding my breath through most of the ascent.
The worst part is over—for now.
I still have the entire landing to get through.
"See? Not so terrible," Savva says, his voice smooth. He takes the completed puzzle book from my hands with a satisfied nod. "You have a natural aptitude for logic puzzles."
The praise warms me more than it probably should. "Thanks for the distraction. I might not have survived takeoff without it."
I'm only half joking.
"That might be a slight exaggeration," he replies, lifting an eyebrow. But I catch the hint of a smile at the corners of his mouth.
From across the aisle, Cole watches me, his mismatched eyes attentive. He hasn't said a word since we boarded, but his gaze hasn't left me either. There's something comforting about his silent vigilance, like having a personal guardian angel keeping watch.
"How are you feeling now?" Roman asks from the seat in front of me, turning to assess me with those intense golden-hazel eyes.
"Better." I manage a smile that doesn't feel forced. "At least until we start going down again."
Troy pokes his head out from the cockpit, his boyish grin instantly lightening the mood. "Don't you worry, princess. This baby practically lands herself. Smoothest ride you'll ever have."
"You're flying this thing?" The pitch of my voice rises embarrassingly high.
His laughter fills the cabin. "God, no. We have actual pilots for that."
The relief I feel makes me dizzy. I trust Troy, but there's trust on a personal level and then there's "yes, I want you and your chaotic energy in charge of an aircraft with me inside it."
"Coffee? Tea? Something stronger?" Liam appears at my side, his muscled tattooed frame making the narrow aisle seem even smaller. He gestures to a compact cabinet I hadn't noticed before. "Won't judge if you need a bit of liquid courage."
The offer is tempting, but I shake my head. The worst part is over, anyway. I think I can handle landing sober. "Tea would be nice, though."
"Coming right up, lass." He moves toward the back of the plane with surprising grace for someone so large.
I've just settled back with my tea when Troy pops his head out of the cockpit again.
"Hey, princess! We've got the Wi-Fi up and running now if you want to check your phone." He winks at me. "Might take your mind off the whole thousands-of-miles-above-the-ground thing."
"Wi-Fi? On this plane?" I can't keep the surprise from my voice. The military aesthetic had me thinking we'd be completely off-grid.
"Of course," Savva says beside me, like it's the most obvious thing in the world. "What self-respecting security team would travel without secure satellite communications?"
Roman's lips twitch. "What Savva means is that of course we have Wi-Fi. We're professionals, not barbarians."
"Speak for yourself," Liam mutters, dropping into the seat across from us.
I pull my phone from my pocket, noticing with a flutter of anxiety that I have seventeen unread texts. All from Skye.
"That's... a lot of messages," Cole says, raising his eyebrow, his gaze fixed on my screen from his position across the aisle.
"Skye," I explain, a smile spreading across my face as I scroll through the increasingly dramatic texts.
[BELLA. It's been TWO HOURS. Are you alive????]
[If you've been kidnapped by five hot alphas, at least send an emoji so I know you're okay.]
[I swear to god if you don't answer me I'm going to assume you're dead and I'm coming after those bodyguards with a scalpel.]
[For real though, everything okay?]
Her last text came in just five minutes ago.
[I know you're on a plane right now (thanks for the location share, at least) but I expect a FULL REPORT when you land or I'm calling the National Guard.]
"Your friend seems passionate," Savva observes, peering discreetly at my screen.
I laugh. "That's one word for her." I quickly tap out a response.
[I'm alive! On the plane now. Will call when we land. Stop planning my funeral.]
The reply is almost instantaneous.
[THANK GOD. Hope you get so much alpha dick you can't walk for a month and Brax can't make you go to that stupid fucking gala.]
I can't help but laugh again.
"Must be quite the conversation," Roman comments, his golden eyes watching me with warm curiosity.
"She's threatening to call in the National Guard if I don't give her hourly updates," I explain, holding up my phone. "Skye's a little... protective."
"Good." Liam nods approvingly. "The more people we have watching out for you, the better."
I type out another message to Skye.
[I promise I'm fine. Better than fine. Will give you details later when I have privacy.]
Her response pops up instantly.
[PRIVACY?? From what? Or WHOM? Bella Emerson, are you having wild sex with a pack of alphas on a PLANE???]
My cheeks flame instantly, and I slap my phone screen-down against my thigh, too late realizing that at least three alphas probably saw it.
"Everything okay?" Cole asks, his voice gruff but concern evident in the way his brow furrows.
"Fine," I squeak, then clear my throat. "Just Skye being Skye."
Troy emerges from the cockpit again, carrying a tray of what looks like pastries. "Snack time!" he announces cheerfully. "We've got about two hours before we land, and nobody should fly on an empty stomach."
"You've already fed me breakfast," I protest weakly.
"That was hours ago," Troy says, like I've said something ridiculous. "And airplane altitude increases metabolism. It's science."
"That is absolutely not science," Savva replies, but he takes a croissant anyway.
"How did you even get these?" I ask, accepting a chocolate-filled pastry that looks freshly baked.
"We have connections," Roman says mysteriously, but the corner of his mouth twitches with suppressed amusement.
"What Roman means is that the airfield manager's wife runs a bakery and we're good tippers," Liam explains, grabbing two pastries at once.
I bite into my own chocolate pastry. It's impossibly flaky, the rich filling melting on my tongue. A genuine purr escapes before I can fully stifle it.
"Good, right?" Troy looks like a puppy seeking approval, his eyes bright with satisfaction.
"Incredible," I admit, licking a bit of chocolate from my thumb. All eyes are on me now and I don't know if I should be embarrassed or not. "I haven't had a pastry this good since... actually, I can't remember when."
Braxley's world was all protein shakes and "clean eating," unless it was a cheat day that needed to be documented for his followers. Spontaneous indulgences weren't part of the carefully controlled nutritional narrative he presented to the world.
"The Vanguard Pack travel experience includes gourmet dining," Troy says with an exaggerated bow from his seat. "Just wait till you see what we can whip up at the safe house. I've been perfecting my paella recipe for years."
"He's not lying," Liam chimes in, already halfway through his second pastry. "The lad can cook."
Cole isn't eating. Just watching me. I offer him a smile and his gaze softens, but he's still looking at me like I'm much more enticing than any pastry. My cheeks flush under his gaze and I look away, suddenly feeling shy.
Is he remembering what I did with my mouth in the shower?
The moment is broken by the plane dipping slightly, a change in altitude that makes my stomach lurch unexpectedly. My knuckles go white on the armrests, the fear of flying I'd almost forgotten surging back with a vengeance.
"We're just adjusting course," Savva says calmly, his hand covering mine. "Nothing to worry about."
I nod, trying to believe him, but my heart is racing again, my breathing shallow and quick. So much for my brief period of bravery.
"Hey," Cole's voice cuts through my rising panic. "Look at me."
Pleasantly surprised he wants me to, I do, finding his mismatched eyes steady and sure. He holds my gaze, anchoring me.
"Breathe with me," he instructs quietly. He demonstrates. In for four counts, hold for seven, out for eight. I follow his lead, matching my breathing to his.
"That's it," he murmurs, his voice a low, soothing rumble. "Just like that."
Slowly, the panic recedes. The plane levels out, and with it, my breathing steadies. Cole doesn't look away, doesn't break the connection until he's sure I'm calm again.
"Better?" he asks.
"Yes," I say, my voice steadier than I expected. "Thank you."
He nods, that same sharp movement, but there's a softness in his expression that makes my heart twist in my chest. I've never had someone notice my distress so quickly, respond to it so effectively. For someone who spent most of his time avoiding me until recently, Cole is remarkably attuned to my needs.
"We should be landing in about forty minutes," Roman announces, checking his watch. "The safe house is a twenty minute drive from the airstrip."
"Where exactly are we going?" I ask, realizing I never bothered to find out our destination.
"Washington coast," Troy replies, grinning. "Our little slice of nowhere, with an ocean view. Nearest neighbor is five miles away."
"Sounds peaceful," I murmur, trying to imagine it. After the constant noise and stimulation of Los Angeles, of Braxley's penthouse with its never-ending parade of delivery people and assistants, the idea of isolation is deeply appealing.
"Peaceful but not primitive," Savva assures me, his lips curving into a smile. "We have all modern amenities. High-speed internet and a security system that would make the Pentagon jealous."
"Top of the line kitchen," Troy adds. "Hope you like fish. There's a fresh catch every morning."
"You fish?" I ask, trying to picture these lethal alphas doing something so... ordinary.
"Cole does," Troy says, jerking a thumb toward him. Cole's eyes narrow slightly, like he'd rather not have attention called to that. "Man can sit in a boat for six hours without moving a muscle. It's uncanny."
I glance at Cole, surprised again. I keep discovering new facets to him—the carver, the fisherman, the protector, the lover. Each layer revealed feels like a gift, a piece of a complex puzzle I'm just beginning to solve.
"Really?" I can't help asking him directly.
He shrugs stiffly. "It's quiet on the water."
I can understand that. For someone who carries as much pain as Cole does, quiet must be precious. A respite from the noise in his own head.
"I'd like to see that sometime," I say softly. "If you wouldn't mind company. It might be a little less quiet, though."
He gives another of his short nods. "Anytime."
Something warm unfurls in my chest at his acceptance. The door between us opening more, inviting me further in.
The sky outside the window has changed, gray clouds replacing the blue expanse of earlier. The light filtering into the cabin is softer, casting everything in a gentle glow. It feels like we're suspended in a moment out of time, these five alphas and me, cocooned in a…
In a metal tube high above the earth.
Oh god.
But for the first time, I understand why people might enjoy flying. Not for the act itself, but for this liminal space it creates. This in-between place where normal rules don't quite apply.
And as the plane begins to descend, I almost wish we could stay up here forever.