Chapter 3 -Elias
Airports are hell. Fluorescent lights hum overhead, the stink of burnt coffee mixes with strangers’ perfume, and the constant drag of rolling suitcases grates in my ears. Ten hours of flight time, three hours of layovers. Half the guys already look like they’re planning their funerals.
Cole’s the loudest about it, obviously. “Ten hours in a flying tin can, boys. And for what? To get to Haverton, where the only good thing is when we leave again. My back’s gonna look like a broken fence post after this.”
“Your back already looks like that,” Mats mutters.
Viktor grunts. Shane makes the sign of the cross and whispers about curses in Denver airports.
Me? I’m thriving. My duffel’s half clothes, half snacks—trail mix, gummy worms, three bags of chips, a box of granola bars I refuse to share, and a pack of beef jerky that’s already open. I could survive three weeks on what I stuffed into my carry-on.
Tyler’s not thriving. He’s sweating like we’re mid-turbulence already, eyes darting like a rabbit waiting for a hawk.
And then there’s him.
Damian Kade. Standing like a storm, eyes cutting through all of us like we’re noise he can barely tolerate. His voice is calm, low, dangerous.
“Keep it down, or I’ll leave you all here.”
We shut up instantly. Even Cole bites his tongue, though he mutters, “Wouldn’t hate that,” and earns a glare from Viktor.
Then Damian’s gaze cuts to me and Tyler.
“Rookies. With me.”
We move before the words even finish. Tyler and I plaster ourselves to his sides like magnets snapping into place. He doesn’t slow down, doesn’t look back—just cuts through the terminal with his duffel slung over one shoulder like he owns the ground. Which he does.
Boarding starts. Tickets scan. I’m wired—not from nerves about flying or Haverton waiting on the other end, but from one thing replaying in my skull for four days straight.
Two words. A knife and a reward at once. They’ve been echoing like a song I can’t turn off. My skin itches with it. My bones ache for it. I need to hear it again.
We take our seats. Tyler and I end up in Damian’s row—of course we do. Ty’s taunting, trying to look alive.
“You’re gonna eat all that sugar and crash before we land.”
“Better than sweating through my shirt like you,” I shoot back.
“At least I’ll have energy for Haverton. You’ll face-plant into the hotel pillow.”
“Better than face-planting into your ice time.”
He barks a laugh, smacks my shoulder. It’s easy, exactly the kind of chirping I should focus on.
Except Damian’s right there. Silent. Too big for the seat, long hair brushing his jaw, eyes fixed out the window. I can feel him in my blood, gravity pulling me sideways.
The engines roar, the plane shakes, and we climb. Ten hours of this. Ten hours sitting beside the man I’ve been obsessed with since I was twelve. I’m already combusting.
My knee won’t stop bouncing, rattling the tray table. Tyler elbows me, muttering “nervous much?” but I barely hear him. My blood’s roaring too loud.
And then—his hand.
Heavy, warm, wide. Dropping onto my thigh like it belongs there.
Damian doesn’t look at me. His gaze stays fixed out the window, profile carved in shadow. But his palm presses firm, weight anchoring me to the seat.
Everything in me freezes. My knee stops. My breath stops. My fucking heart stops.
Three seconds—that’s all I last before my mouth betrays me. I turn my head, slow, reverent, eyes dragging over his scarred lip, his jaw, the fire in his gaze. I grin, armor slipping into place.
“So what’s this then, Captain? Holding my hand under the table like we’re on a date?”
No reaction. His hand doesn’t twitch.
I keep going, desperate. “You know, some guys buy me dinner first. Maybe a drink. You? Straight for the thigh. Bold move.”
I’m babbling, flirting, anything to keep from shaking apart under his touch. Daring him to shut me up.
And then he does.
He turns his head just enough for his voice to reach me, low and lethal, meant only for me.
“If I wanted your mouth busy, Mercer, you wouldn’t be using it to talk.”
The bottom drops out of me.
Heat floods my face, so fast I’m dizzy. Me. Blushing. I snap my mouth shut so hard I bite my tongue. The cabin noise hums on—Tyler muttering, Mats flirting across the aisle, the attendant giggling—but I’m gone.
His hand doesn’t leave my thigh.
The flight attendant stops at our row. “Gentlemen, can I get you anything to drink?”
“Whiskey,” Damian says. Then, without pause: “And water for him.”
It takes a second for me to realize him means me.
“What? Captain—”
“Under twenty-one.” His tone is flat, final. “Water.”
I slump hard, arms crossed, pouting like a sulky teenager. My water lands with a clink, insult in plastic. His whiskey follows, amber catching the light. He picks it up without a word.
Tyler smirks. “Aw, looks like someone’s getting babysat.”
“Shut the fuck up, Ty.”
“What’s the matter, curls? No big boy drinks for you?”
“Tyler—” Heat climbs my neck.
“What’s next, Mercer? You need him to cut your food too?”
The words spill out of me too fast, too raw. “If he told me to eat off the floor, I would.”
Silence slams the row. Tyler stares, grin faltering.
And then—I realize what I’ve said. With him right there.
My chest pounds, face blazing. I want the emergency exit door to blow wide and suck me straight out.
Then his voice, low in my ear:
“Careful, pup. Don’t promise what you can’t survive.”
Every muscle seizes. My breath locks. His hand stays heavy, brand-like.
I laugh too loud, awkward and sharp. Tyler startles, forces out a chuckle of his own.
“Relax, Ty,” I tease, my grin too wide. “I was joking.”
Ty just shakes his head, muttering, “Sure you were.”
Damian doesn’t blink. Doesn’t move. Just leans back with his whiskey, gaze fixed on the window, hand still claiming me.
The silence is unbearable—until Cole pops his head over the seat in front of us, sunglasses crooked. “Hey, curls.”
I groan. “What, Hollywood.”
“Snacks. You look like you packed half a grocery store. Share with the class.”
“No.”
“Yes.” He wiggles his fingers. “Give me the gummy worms, or I’m telling everyone you cried during warm-ups.”
“I didn’t cry.”
“You looked misty.”
“From sweat!”
I dig into my bag anyway and whip a pack of gummy worms at his face. He catches it one-handed, grinning. “Atta boy.”
Tyler steals a granola bar. I smack his hand. “That’s mine!”
“Rookie tax,” he huffs.
Soon it’s chaos—snacks everywhere, Cole reaching back for more, me batting hands away like a dragon guarding treasure. For once I’m grinning again, manic but free.
Damian doesn’t stop it. His hand stays steady on my thigh, anchoring me, while the noise drowns out the silence that was choking me.
By the time wheels hit tarmac, half my stash is gone. Denver. Halfway to Haverton.
Cole’s the first to whine. “If I don’t get carbs in the next ten minutes, I’ll die right here. Somebody carry me to bread.”
“Shut up,” Viktor growls.
But it works. Within minutes, we’re crowded into an airport restaurant with sticky tables and laminated menus. Chaos again—bread baskets ripped apart before they hit the table, Cole chirping, Shane muttering curses, Mats flirting with the waitress, Tyler looking like he’ll cry over the menu.
I’m halfway through fries, taunting Ty about ordering a salad in Denver, when Damian’s voice cuts clean through the noise.
“Finish up.”
That’s all.
And everyone obeys. Forks scrape faster, bread shoved down, drinks drained. When he stands, so does the table.
He herds us back to the gate like we’re kids. Second flight.
And this time, no Tyler.
No buffer, no distraction. Just me and him. Five more hours—eight with the time difference—trapped at his side.
My seat is right next to his. Damian drops into the aisle spot, buckles in, duffel precise at his feet. He doesn’t look at me. My heart plummets as I slide into the window seat like I’m stepping into an execution chamber.
The cabin dims. Engines rumble. The team nods off one by one.
I can’t.
Every time I start to drift, I jolt awake. Not from turbulence. From him. Damian’s right there, scrolling calmly on his phone, discipline in every line of him. Every breath he takes rattles through me like a puck off the post.
At some point, I wake to find his seat empty. Panic spikes fast, stupid, hollowing me out—until he returns.
He sits down with silent weight, carrying two drinks. Whiskey. Tea.
He sets the whiskey on my tray.
I blink. “Uh…sir, I think this is yours.”
He doesn’t answer at first. Places his tea down, slides his phone away. Then his eyes cut sideways, sharp.
“Drink it and go to sleep, Mercer.” His voice is low, casual, final. “You’re very distracting.”
My chest caves. Distracting. Me.
Heat floods everywhere. My hand just moves. I grab the glass, swallow fast.
Bad idea.
“Jesus Christ—” The burn sears down my throat. My whole body jerks. “How the fuck do you drink this? It tastes like someone lit a tree on fire and bottled the smoke!”
My voice cracks, too loud, enough to earn a few snorts from the half-asleep guys. I slump, breath ragged, face contorted as the whiskey coils in my chest like fire.
But it’s…nice. Heat spreading, smoothing the wires under my skin, loosening my shoulders for the first time in days.
I turn my head, sluggish, eyes on him. Damian is calm, unreadable, sipping tea like he didn’t just shatter me again.
All I can do is breathe out, low and wrecked. “Holy fuck…”
And melt into my seat.