Chapter 4
ALEKSANDER
Bella insists on fussing over my hand like it’s some kind of mortal wound. I flex my fingers again, ignoring the dull sting in my knuckles. It’s nothing. I’ve taken far worse hits in boardrooms and back alleys.
She doesn’t buy it. “Let me see,” she says, reaching for my hand, all soft determination and narrowed eyes.
I scoff, pulling back just enough to remind her I’m still in charge. “It’s a scratch. I’m fine.”
She crosses her arms and gives me that look—the one that used to drive me crazy in New York, stubborn and sweet at the same time. “Men and their egos,” she mutters. “It’s like you all think you’re made of steel.”
I can’t help the smile that tugs at my lips. “Most of us are.”
She rolls her eyes. “Yeah, well, even steel rusts. I’m getting a flight attendant.”
“I don’t care,” I say, jaw set, but she’s already glancing over her shoulder, scanning the lounge for help.
“Fine,” she says, arching a brow. “Then I’ll handle it myself. Give me your hand, Aleksander.”
I should refuse. I should tell her to leave it. But I find myself giving in, letting her take my bruised knuckles in her gentle grip. Her fingers are cool, careful, tracing over broken skin with a tenderness I’d almost forgotten people could have for me.
“See?” she says softly, looking up at me through her lashes. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”
I watch her fuss, the heat in my chest a mix of pride and something dangerously close to affection. God, she’s trouble. She always was.
And yet I can’t make myself pull away.
She glances at my hand again, worry etched in the delicate crease between her brows. “There should be a first aid kit in the restroom,” she mutters, more to herself than to me. Without waiting for an answer, she heads for the aisle, and I fall into step behind her.
It’s almost comical—her so determined, me trailing after like an obedient bodyguard. I’m twice her size and still, somehow, she leads.
We pass through the hush of first class.
Bella’s eyes flick over to where her daughter is curled up in their suite, one tiny hand clutching a stuffed animal, her chest rising and falling in a peaceful rhythm.
Bella’s gaze lingers, softening just a little, protective in a way that guts me more than I want to admit.
A kid. She’s a mother now.
I remind myself, again, that things are different. She probably has a husband. Someone who kisses her in the mornings, reads bedtime stories, promises to keep her safe. So where is he? Why isn’t he here, on this plane, watching over them?
My jaw tightens as I follow her. Maybe it shouldn’t matter, but it does. It bothers me—more than I’m willing to say out loud.
She pushes the door open and steps inside, beckoning me with a wave. “Come on. I’m not fixing you up in the middle of the aisle.”
Without waiting, she slips into the first-class restroom, tugging me in after her.
I expect cramped and clinical. Instead, it’s ridiculous—soft lighting, marble counter, gold fixtures, a sink big enough to bathe a toddler, and mirrors everywhere. There’s even a tiny orchid perched by a basket of rolled towels.
Bella whistles, eyes wide with amusement. “Wow. This bathroom is bigger than my old apartment in New York. And way cleaner.”
The walls are a soft, calming gray, the floor a warm herringbone tile. It smells faintly of lemon and something floral, not the harsh sting of bleach.
I try to care about the details, but all I see is her reflection in the mirror, the quick, delighted smile she tries to hide. It’s ridiculous, really—she looks at this bathroom like it’s a five-star hotel, and somehow that makes me want to see it the same way.
I lean against the vanity, watching her unpack the first aid kit like it’s the most important job in the world. For a moment, I try to imagine living the way she does—finding magic in things I stopped noticing years ago.
She glances at me, a teasing glint in her eyes. “Don’t get any ideas. I’m here strictly on nurse duty, Mr. Antonov.”
I lift my hands in surrender, but inside, all I can think is how damn easy it is to let her take the lead—even here, in a bathroom that cost more than her rent.
“Whatever you say, nurse,” I reply, voice low and a little rough. “You’re in charge.”
She rolls her eyes, muttering something under her breath about men and drama, but there’s a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. She lines up the bandages and antiseptic wipes on the counter like she’s prepping for surgery, then takes my hand in hers.
It feels ridiculous—me, towering over her in this palatial airplane bathroom, letting her dab at my knuckles like a kindergarten teacher with a playground casualty.
I’ve walked away from things that would turn most people pale, but right now, her gentle touch is making my skin feel too tight, heat coiling low in my belly.
It shouldn’t be this distracting. But it is.
She glances up, meeting my eyes in the mirror. “Try not to punch any more of your friends tonight, okay?”
“Trust me,” I say, voice dry, “that man is no friend of mine.”
Her lips twitch, but she doesn’t ask more. She’s careful, wiping the blood away and smoothing on a bandage with steady, capable fingers. I watch her, the way her brow furrows in concentration, the way her hair falls loose around her face.
I clear my throat, trying to sound casual. “Your daughter…she’s beautiful. She must keep you busy.”
She glances up, and for a second, her eyes flicker with something I can’t name. “She does. Lily is…everything.”
I nod, studying her face. “And her father? He’s not traveling with you?”
She hesitates, just for a heartbeat, then shakes her head, a smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “No. It’s just me and Lily.”
I narrow my eyes, searching her face for a crack in the calm. Just her and Lily? I want to believe her, but something about the way she says it makes me itch to know more.
I try to prod, soft and casual. “So there’s no one waiting for you in New York? No husband pacing at arrivals?”
Her smile tightens. “No one. Not that it’s any of your business, Aleksander.”
She pulls her hands away, reaching for the first aid kit as if the conversation is over.
But I’m not done—not even close. I step closer, lowering my voice, letting the heat bleed into every word. “You know, I remember you being a much worse liar.”
She scoffs, turning her back, but I can see the shiver that runs through her. She’s always been so stubborn, so quick to shut me out when she’s scared.
So I find another way.
I move in, my hand sliding to her waist. Her breath catches, and I can see the war in her eyes—wanting to fight, wanting to stay. “Why do you always run, Bella?” I murmur, my mouth inches from her ear. “Were you worried what I might think of Lily?”
Her eyes widen slightly, and it looks like she’s about to say something.
She turns, ready to argue, but I catch her jaw gently, tipping her face up to mine. The words die on her lips.
“You don’t have to run from me,” I say, and then I pull her to me, hard, mouth crashing against hers.
It’s all heat and memory—her body soft and tense in my arms, her hands pressed against my chest, her lips meeting mine with an answering hunger that makes my head spin.
For a moment, nothing else exists. There’s just her, just us, all the lost time burning away in a kiss that’s desperate and angry and impossibly sweet.
She tries to break away, but I hold her tight, unwilling to let go just yet. I kiss her like it’s the only thing that matters—like she’s mine, and always has been.
She melts against me for a second, her mouth answering mine, fingers curling into my shirt like she wants to climb inside my skin. I feel the ache I’ve been carrying for years crack open, raw and electric.
But then she tenses, breath shuddering, and pulls back just enough to break the seal of our mouths. Her hands flatten against my chest, holding me at bay. She won’t meet my eyes.
I search her face, jaw tight, fighting the urge to drag her closer and never let her go. “You still feel it, don’t you?” I whisper, voice rough. “Tell me I’m not the only one.”
She shakes her head, but her lips are red and swollen, her eyes glassy with heat and confusion. “This is crazy,” she whispers, her voice trembling. “Aleksander, we can’t— It’s not that simple.”
I brush my thumb along her cheek, aching to convince her. “Why not? Tell me what’s stopping you. Who’s stopping you?”
She shakes her head at my question, but instead of pulling away, she closes the space between us and claims my mouth with hers.
Her kiss is urgent, hungry, filled with everything we never said.
My hands slide up her back, finding the warm, bare skin beneath her shirt as she presses herself against me, desperate and bold.
The world shrinks down to the taste of her, the thrum of her heartbeat against my chest, her fingers twisting in my hair as she deepens the kiss. I can’t get enough—I need to touch her, all of her, to remind myself this is real.
She gasps into my mouth as my hands find her waist, her ribs, sliding higher until I feel the soft swell of her breast through the thin fabric.
I tug her shirt up, breaking the kiss just long enough for her to let me pull it over her head, her skin glowing under the soft lights.
For a moment, I just look at her—breathtaking, flushed, wanting me as much as I want her.
I lower my head, my lips finding the sensitive skin along her collarbone, then lower still, tracing heat and memory over the curve of her breast. Her hands clutch my shoulders as I press hot, open-mouthed kisses across her skin, losing myself in the sounds she makes, the way she arches into my touch.
My hands explore her, greedy for every new touch—her ribs, her back, the smooth slope of her waist, her skin flushed and warm under my hands. I pause just to look at her, chest rising and falling, eyes bright with want. My breath catches; it’s been years, but nothing has dulled the pull between us.