Chapter 1
SONYA
“Son of a bitch,” I mutter to myself.
My hand clenches around my phone so hard it’s a miracle the glass doesn’t shatter in my grip.
I’m breathing hard, heat crawling up my neck, not humiliation.
Fury. The kind that burns clean and lethal.
I stare at the text message, the chaos of the airport fading into background noise as I read the final line over again.
If only you dropped the weight.
My heart hammers in my chest, steady and furious, like it’s already chosen violence.
“What the ever-loving fuck?”
Samson didn’t just cheat on me.
He woke up and chose audacity, reckless, delusional, self-destructive audacity.
He let me plan a wedding while he went shopping for a prettier replacement, then had the nerve to make my body the reason.
Like my softness was the problem. Like my curves were something to apologize for.
Like he hadn’t spent years putting his hands on this body and acting like he’d won the damn lottery.
Like I was ever the one lacking.
Rage burns through me, hot, controlled, and sharp enough to cut.
I was going to marry him. And he threw me away like I was too much to be seen with.
No.
He didn’t throw me away.
He fumbled me.
There’s a difference.
Let him have his perfect bride.
Let him have the woman he thinks makes him look better in pictures.
I hope she likes weak men with wandering eyes and the spine density of overcooked pasta.
The next man lucky enough to touch me would earn the goddamn privilege.
He’d worship every inch Samson was too stupid to appreciate.
My hips. My stomach. My thighs. The parts of me I spent years shrinking in rooms that were never big enough for women like me.
Not anymore. I am done making myself smaller for men who never deserved the full shape of me.
He’d get a woman who’d make him feel every second of her worth.
And Samson?
Samson would get exactly what he deserved.
A front-row seat to the woman he underestimated becoming unforgettable.
I take in a deep grounding breath.
I will not let my asshole ex ruin my vacation.
If I’m going to spiral, I’m doing it with champagne and extra legroom.
I contemplate throwing my phone through the plate-glass window at the gate and then turning around and punching whoever I see next.
Except the person I see next is not someone you hit.
Not unless you want to get folded like a lawn chair.
A giant of a man is waiting to board just behind me.
I’m not exactly short, but I have to look up to see his face.
Good lord, he’s built like a linebacker, and I wouldn’t be surprised if the second he sits down, the seams of his suit start begging for mercy.
He’s handsome in a way that makes it hard to think, with dark wavy hair tinged gray in a way that reminds me of George Clooney.
No, not just handsome. Dangerous.
Like if he ruined my life, I’d apologize to him after.
My gaze lingers a second too long.
Broad shoulders.
Thick chest.
Hands that look like they could absolutely pick me up and, unfortunately, I would not protest.
I drag my eyes away, focusing on my breathing instead.
Get it together.
You were just emotionally destroyed. This is not the time to develop a crush on your next big mistake.
I power down my phone and stuff it into my carry-on, nearly ripping the zipper in the process.
“That phone must have really upset you.”
The voice is a baritone rumble that slides over me, low and intimate, like it belongs much closer than a stranger should be. It settles somewhere warm and inconvenient.
I turn to find the big man watching me with a slight curl to one corner of his mouth and a glimmer in his startlingly clear blue eyes.
I catch a breath of patchouli, cardamom, and something dark and rich that clings to him like a secret. Not just expensive. Dangerous.
The kind of scent that makes you lean in instead of step back.
I swallow.
“I, uh, I was imagining stuffing my ex into a body bag.”
His gaze sharpens. Not concerned. If anything, impressed.
“Ah.” The man nods slowly. “I’m glad I’m not the one on your bad side, then.”
Something in the way he says it doesn’t sound worried at all.
“I don’t think you’d fit into a traditional body bag,” I reply, because apparently I’ve lost all survival instincts. “I imagine they’d have to custom make one for a man of your size.”
What the hell are you saying, Sonya?
I expect the man to stop talking to me immediately since he probably thinks I’m a nut job.
But instead, a ghost of a smile grows into something incredibly sexy and disarming.
Add a flash of white teeth and the smile lines at the corners of his mouth and he’s somehow even sexier.
He chuckles, a deep, stimulating sound, and I swallow hard before I make some weird noise I know I’ll regret.
“You’re probably right about needing a special order body bag for me.”
I take a breath to say something, anything at all, brain, please, when I’m cut off by a loud announcement:
“Flight 1386 to Prague is now boarding first-class passengers.”
The moment breaks.
He steps back with a slight tilt of his head, still watching me like he knows exactly what he’s doing to my pulse.
I should say something clever. Something normal. Something that doesn’t make me sound like I’m two seconds from asking him to custom-order me into his lap.
But the line starts moving, and whatever strange little bubble formed between us pops under the fluorescent lights and the shuffle of carry-ons.
For the first time in my life, I get to walk past all the other people waiting.
I’m a little embarrassed and a little exhilarated at the same time because I’ve never flown first-class before.
I don’t even like flying. I love traveling, but I hate flying, which always seemed kind of ridiculous to me.
It’s hard to have one without the other.
The gate agent checks my ticket, then offers me a warm welcome and a smile.
I deserve it. I deserve it. I deserve it.
I keep repeating the phrase in my mind as I walk down the jet bridge.
I’m shown into first-class, guided to a spacious, lavish seat where a tray of olives, a pouch of amenities, bottled water, and a blanket are waiting for me.
I stow my suitcase and sit down.
The flight attendant hands me a glass of champagne while the rest of the plane boards and settles in.
All of my anger and second thoughts about spending so much money disappear when the sweet bubbly hits my tongue.
I let out a little squeal and do a small dance in my seat because I can’t believe I’m actually here, flying first-class to Prague.
Another one of those deep chuckles freezes me in place.
I look over.
Of course he’s there.
Of course the silver fox who was standing behind me in line is in the seat directly across from mine.
“First time in first-class?” he asks.
My cheeks heat with a deep blush. “Is it painfully obvious?”
“Maybe not.” He shrugs and places his small leather bag onto the seat. “I normally don’t pay much attention to whether people dance on a flight.”
He looks directly at me.
Fuck me. He’s hot.
His eyes are a luminous blue that makes me catch my breath.
His gaze is so intense it feels like he’s looking right through me to my core.
The feeling is disarming but also exciting.
Does he look at everyone this way?
I’m still wondering if his suit is going to split open when he sits down, but upon closer inspection it’s clearly tailored to him.
Cufflinks on his crisp white shirt glimmer subtly in the cabin’s dim light.
His watch appears outrageously expensive even without a close look.
His hair is perfectly tousled, his suit perfectly pressed and creased.
I spent a lot of money for this seat.
This guy clearly belongs here.
“I’m Sonya,” I say, switching the champagne to my other hand as I reach out in greeting.
“Matvei,” he says, his hand enveloping mine, enormous and warm, his grip surprisingly gentle for his size.
The name jolts me in its familiarity, though I cannot for the life of me remember where I’ve heard it before.
I’m also distracted by the spark of electricity that ignites between us.
It’s probably just static in the close-quarters cabin.
“This is my first time in first-class,” I confess. “I spent all the money I’d saved for my wedding on it because I hate flying, and I thought this might make it better. This, and a nice hotel in Prague, plus some sightseeing adventures so I can forget my ex.”
I babble as he settles himself across the aisle.
“I assume he was the person texting you.” At my expression, he ducks his head in apology and sips his own glass of champagne. “I couldn’t help but see part of your screen over your shoulder. Part of the curse of being too tall.”
I flush and bite my lip, taking a bigger sip of the champagne than intended, coughing from the bubbles.
“I was planning the wedding and saving up, and then he just disappeared. The next time I heard from him, he told me he was breaking up with me. No explanation. Today I finally got one.”
He clucks his tongue and takes another sip.
“Well.” His eyes catch mine over his glass in a way that makes me gulp again. “There are many other men in the world. I’d hope the opinion of one asshole doesn’t start making you doubt yourself and your beauty.”
“Maybe I can find someone in Prague. I wonder what kind of body type men prefer in the Czech Republic?”
What was meant as an attempt at humor clearly falls flat as he stares at me with that same unsettling gaze.
“I would hope you find someone who appreciates the entire package, not just the wrapping, as appealing as it is in itself.”
Heat blooms low in my stomach.
Another of his smoldering looks before he downs the rest of his bubbly, handing the glass to the flight attendant coming around to collect them before takeoff.
I spend the acceleration down the runway and the entire ascent gripping the arms of my chair, my eyes squeezed shut, breathing deeply in and out before I start to panic.
“I didn’t think you’d survive takeoff.”
I open one eye to see him peering at me.
His smile is small, his eyes warm with amusement.
“I told you I hated flying. The takeoff is the worst part.”
I squeeze my eyes shut again, but his voice is like a siren song, pulling me back from the edge of my panic.
“I’m a good distraction,” he says, his voice a low rumble.
When I open my eyes again seconds later, he’s still looking at me, his chin resting on one hand as he leans forward.
“A little too good, I think. You’re not helping me focus on my imminent doom.”
“I’m trying to prevent it. I don’t think they special order body bags for two.”
His eyes crinkle at the corners as he teases me.
And from that moment on, I’m lost.
I find talking to this enormous enigma of a stranger easy.
Matvei seems content enough to listen.
We talk until my eyes start to grow heavy, aided by the hum of the engine and the extra glass of champagne I ordered.
The last thing I hear is a chuckle as I drift off in the middle of a sentence, unable to stay awake any longer.
I’m roused by a sudden jolt, followed a heartbeat later by another one, the second even more violent.
“Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh my God.”
I grip the seat so hard my nails dig into the soft leather.
Another jolt sends me flying out of my seat, my stomach in free fall.
“Ladies and gentlemen. We’re flying through a storm as we cross the Atlantic, so we can expect some turbulence for the next half hour or so. I’m turning on the fasten-seatbelt sign to keep everyone safe. Please bear with us until we get through the storm.”
The captain sounds calm and disinterested.
I should take heart in that, but I don’t.
All I heard were the words “storm” and “turbulence.”
“Oh my God,” I groan, then squeal at another massive jolt.
The plane rises and descends, then rises again before dropping once more.
“This was a terrible idea.”
I’m going to die because that asshole broke up with me and I had some wild idea about washing off his touch, his betrayal, and my misery with a random trip to Prague.
“Sonya?”
I hear Matvei’s voice, but I can’t open my eyes, because if I do, we’re going to crash.
The plane takes a steep dive before leveling out, but not in time to stop my cry of fear.
“Sonya? Are you all right?” Matvei says.
“Sir, you have to remain in your seat,” the flight attendant warns.
“Sonya, please say something.”
“Sir, please sit down.”
I don’t understand the commotion until Matvei is sitting in the seat beside me.
I can smell his cologne and feel his warmth as he leans close, one of his hands covering mine as I clutch the armrest.
“We’re going to die.”
I’ve already made a perfect idiot out of myself in front of one of the hottest men I’ve ever seen, and now I’m putting the cherry on top by completely losing it in front of him.
Except he’s leaning closer, his thumb stroking mine in a slow, steady rhythm.
“We’re not going to die. This is just turbulence.”
I screech again as the plane drops for what feels like minutes, though logically I know it’s not.
Before I can register what’s happening, his hands are on my seat belt.
I feel it unclick before I finally open my eyes.
“What are you doing?”
His smile is quiet, dark, unhurried.
“Giving you somewhere you can’t hyperventilate in front of the whole plane.”
Matvei pulls me out of my seat and takes my hand, leading me down the aisle.
“Sir! Sir, you need to sit down! You’re not supposed to get up when the fasten-seatbelt sign is on!”
The flight attendant follows us, her face flushed with flustered anger as she hangs on to the seatbacks through another jolt.
But the red turns to ghostly white at the look Matvei sends her over his shoulder.
Even I try to pull away from the terrifying mask his face becomes.
He’s even more frightening than the turbulence.
The look has its desired effect because the flight attendant stops chasing us.
Matvei pulls me into the bathroom suite.
“Holy shit,” I say, looking around at an airplane bathroom that’s larger than the one in my apartment.
“What are you—”
When Matvei pulls me around and pins me against the back of the door, I entirely forget what I was going to say.
The plane lurches again, but this time my legs don’t give out.
Because if I’m about to die, I’m doing it pressed against a man who looks like he knows exactly how many ways he could ruin me and hasn’t even started yet.