Chapter 35
Alejandro is on his feet again, moving through the cargo hold with an ease that suggests he’s already memorized the layout.
The heating unit hums softly as trays begin to cycle toward some internal lift mechanism that will carry them up to the passenger deck above, where linen-draped tables and polished smiles wait.
He lifts a lid, peers inside, then another.
“Bingo,” he says, pleased.
He pulls out two trays of hot food and sets them on the crate between us like an offering.
“No land meat,” he adds, glancing at me with a wink.
“Open those,” he says. “I’ll find us dessert.”
I watch him go, then peel back the foil. The smell hits me immediately, rich, and clean and wildly inappropriate for the place we’re hiding. I eat slowly, methodically, because my body needs it even if my head isn’t ready to rest.
While I chew, I let myself think.
I make peace, at least temporarily, with the things Alejandro didn’t share.
Like what timing needs to be right.
Maybe it was the confession he just gave me. The truth of how he was set up two years ago. The story he’s been carrying alone, carefully rationed, like ammunition.
Or maybe it’s something else. Something that changed him after exile. Something that hardened into a new rule I don’t know yet.
Maybe he blames me.
The thought slides in quietly and lodges there.
When the news broke, I reacted like the perfect Guild girl. I believed the lie. I didn’t go after his contract, but I didn’t question it either. I didn’t dig. I didn’t doubt publicly. I didn’t reach out.
He would be dead if I had taken the job.
But I didn’t save him either.
I was angry. Hurt. Offended that he would betray the Guild, the oaths we all take, the structure that keeps monsters like us pointed outward instead of inward.
Something twists in my chest when I think about his sister finding him immediately. Knowing without hesitation that he wouldn’t do it.
She went to him.
I didn’t.
The realization bites deeper than I want to admit, sharp and undeserved and mine to carry.
And still, there’s something else. Something that doesn’t fit.
Every time I open my fucking eyes, assassins find me. Perfect timing. Perfect placement. Like someone is moving pieces on a board I can’t see. The missing files nag at me, an itch I can’t scratch yet. They matter. I know they do. I just don’t know how. Not until Grim tells me what was taken.
Alejandro returns before I can spiral too far, arms full like he’s looted a five-star pantry instead of a plane’s cargo hold. He sets down two salads, then two plates of dessert, each different. He adds a handful of miniature wine bottles and, impossibly, two actual wine glasses.
Not plastic.
I stare at them for a moment, then huff out a breath.
I shouldn’t be surprised. Everything else on this plane has been excessive, curated, indulgent. Of course, even the emergency wine is high end.
Alejandro catches my look and smiles like he knows exactly what I’m thinking.
I take a sip, let the absurdity of it wash over me, and for just a moment, suspended between the hum of the engines and the weight of everything unspoken, I let myself exist in the quiet.
Not safe.
But fed.
An hour later, Alejandro watches me slide the Swiss knife back into my pocket after I twist open an actual bottle of wine. The little single-serve ones didn’t survive dinner.
“Why in the fuck do you use that?” he asks, gesturing at my pocket.
I lift my glass. “Why not?”
He shakes his head, baffled in that way that’s half amusement, half genuine disbelief. “The world is full of weapons, and you choose that.”
“First of all,” I lean back, full, and smug, legs stretched out as he tops off my glass. “I’m the weapon. Let’s get that straight.”
I take a slow sip.
“Everything else is just at my disposal.”
His eyes linger on me a second longer than necessary before he looks around, scanning the cargo hold like he’s searching for inspiration. He grabs a nearby weekend bag and starts pulling things out.
“What would you use this for?” he asks, holding something up.
“That’s a spatula.”
He tosses it to me, and I catch it easily.
“And what would the great Saint James do with a spatula?” he asks.
I twirl it between my fingers like a baton. “I don’t know,” I say thoughtfully. “Take over the mafia? What the fuck do you want me to say?”
I swat at him with it. He tries to dodge, but I still get him.
“Teach loud men a lesson,” I add.
He laughs, digging back into the bag. “This?” he asks, lifting a rosary strung with black and red beads. There’s a gleam in his eye now, trouble sharpening into something darker.
“Easy,” I say. “Strangle you with it.”
He laughs again and twirls it in a circle around his finger. “I was thinking some very naughty things in a confessional booth myself.”
He shifts lower in his seat, legs spread, one dark eyebrow lifting. His posture is an invitation dressed up as arrogance.
“You’re doing it again,” I tell him.
He grins, all heat. “Doing what?”
I finish my wine, set the glass aside, and stand.
I don’t rush it. I step into his space, swing one leg over him, settling astride his lap like it’s exactly where I belong.
One hand braces on my thigh and slides up my hip.
He drains the last swallow of his own wine before setting the glass on the floor.
Now both his hands are on my thighs, warm, possessive.
He looks up at me like he thinks he’s won. But he was already half hard when I sat down.
“You think,” I say softly, leaning in just enough to make it dangerous, “that you can keep me distracted with how well you fuck.”
His hands tighten, my hips roll once, slow and deliberate pulling a groan from him.
“But you underestimate my ability to resist you.”
He smiles like that’s a challenge.
His hands move, teasing, coaxing, trying to pull a reaction out of me as my body betrays its interest. I let him think it’s working for exactly three seconds.
Then I tilt my head, smile sweetly, and turn it back on him.
“How long do you think you can last,” I ask quietly, “before you’re the one who gives in?”
I settle onto his lap, thighs caging him, weight pressed deliberately where I know it’ll drive him out of his mind. Alejandro’s mouth quirks, but his hands stay right where I want them—palms open on my thighs, like he’s learned not to test me when I’m in this mood.
“Planning to keep me here all night, Saint?” His voice is gravel, but there’s a thread of challenge beneath it—one I’m happy to answer.
I press in close, lips grazing his jaw, letting my breath feather over the stubble on his throat. “If you’re lucky.” My hands slip beneath his shirt, feeling the play of muscle and old scars. “But you don’t get to decide how this goes.”
His pupils blow wide. He’s used to being the one with the upper hand. Tonight, he’ll learn just how good it can feel to let it go.
My fingers drag down, nails raking lightly over his chest. He shudders, hips bucking once beneath me. I pin him with my thighs, stilling his movement. “Don’t rush. You’re going to be good for me tonight, aren’t you?”
He nods, almost involuntarily, tongue darting out to wet his bottom lip. “Yes, Saint.” His voice is low—thick with the promise of obedience.
“Good.” I trail my hands down his torso, tracing the line of his abs, stopping just above his belt. I unfasten it, slow and methodical, enjoying the tension stringing tight between us. He’s watching me, every muscle straining for restraint, but his hands stay put.
“Lift.” It’s a single word, but he obeys, hips rising so I can push his pants and boxers down far enough for what I want. His cock is already hard—aching, heavy against his thigh. I wrap my hand around him, slow, teasing. He groans, head dropping back against the crate, exposing his throat.
“You want me to use you?” I whisper against his ear, hand working him in a steady rhythm. “Take what I want from your cock?”
“Yes.” It’s barely a sound. I press my lips to his throat, tasting sweat and skin, feeling the frantic beat of his pulse beneath my tongue. He’s always been beautiful like this—untethered, desperate, trying to hold on and failing.
I slide down his body, kissing a line from his chest to his stomach, then lower still. His hands twitch, but I glare up at him and he freezes, understanding. I kneel between his legs, the soft glow of the cargo hold catching on my skin, painting us in shadows.
I take him in hand again, circling my tongue around the tip, tasting the salt and heat of him. He sucks in a sharp breath. “Fuck, Saint—” His hips jerk but I clamp my free hand on his thigh, forcing him still.
I tease him, lips, and tongue dancing, taking him deep and then letting him fall free, wet and aching. Every time he tries to thrust up, I stop, let him ache, let him beg.
“God, that’s good,” he rasps, voice gone rough. “Don’t stop—”
I pull off with a slow, deliberate pop. “Not until I say, Alejandro. Hands behind your back. Now.”
He does it—God, he does it instantly, gripping the edge of the crate behind him, knuckles white with the effort of holding back. I smirk, running my fingers along the sensitive underside of his cock, watching him strain before I take him deep.
I rise, letting his dick fall from my mouth, and he tries to follow my body with his hands. I catch his wrists, pinning them to the crate behind him. “Don’t,” I say, low and warning. “You just watch.”
He does. He’s learning.
I take my time, making a show of every movement.
Boots first—black leather, scuffed from the abuse I put them through.
I unzip them slow, toeing them off one at a time, letting them clatter to the floor.
Socks next. I hook my thumbs, dragging them down, baring skin inch by inch. I’m not in a rush. I want him to ache.