Chapter Three
The aircraft settled into a sedate cruise, still flying dark, still invisible to anything that mattered.
Ethan kept them just off the expected corridors, riding airspace gaps the way he always did when he didn’t want to be logged, tracked, or remembered.
No filed flight plan. No chatter. No questions asked on the way out—because there hadn’t been time to ask them, and no one left on the ground who mattered was inclined to start now.
They were four hours clear of Jakarta when his shoulders finally eased.
Not much. Just enough to breathe.
The engines hummed with a quieter note now, restrained and patient, the kind of sound that told him the jet was content to do exactly what he asked of it. He monitored systems out of habit more than concern, fingers brushing switches, eyes flicking over numbers he already knew by heart.
Behind him, the cabin was low and hushed.
The lights had been dimmed to a soft amber, throwing long shadows across bulkheads and gear racks.
Bandages were stripped from sterile packets with quiet efficiency, the sound sharp in the stillness.
Ethan could picture it without turning—Victor kneeling, methodical and precise, Tane hovering close enough to take over without being asked.
No panic. No wasted movement. Just damage control.
He stayed facing forward because if he turned, if he watched, the tight knot in his chest would pull too hard, too fast.
Black Tide spoke softly when they spoke at all. Murmured updates. A clipped laugh. The rustle of fabric and gear being stowed. He caught fragments without turning—medical supplies unpacked, Victor’s voice steady and controlled, Tane’s sharper edge softened by focus.
“His leg wound is healing nicely,” Victor murmured. “If he stops getting captured and threatened, it should heal up all good.”
“Yeah,” Tane replied. “Niko, you just need to stop getting injured, bruh.”
Ethan swallowed. He had never been injury-prone before
He heard the pissed-off response from Niko, tightly controlled, but couldn’t make out the words.
Time stretched.
Then, quietly, footsteps approached.
Ethan didn’t look up when the copilot seat shifted. He didn’t need to in order to know who had joined him.
Niko settled in beside him with a tired exhale, movements measured, one hand braced briefly against the console before he eased his left leg into a more comfortable position.
They sat in silence.
Ethan became acutely aware of everything the cockpit held—the faint vibration through the yoke, the way the horizon line refused to stay perfectly still, the smell of recycled air layered with fuel and antiseptic drifting forward from the cabin.
This was the place he understood best. A narrow, contained world governed by numbers and physics, not memory or consequence.
Niko’s presence disrupted that balance anyway.
Ethan could feel him beside him without looking. The careful way he breathed. The way he held himself as if pain were something to be negotiated with rather than endured.
The kind that pressed instead of comforted.
Ethan kept his eyes on the horizon, jaw tight, pulse suddenly loud in his ears. He had imagined this moment a hundred times in the years he’d spent not imagining it at all. None of those versions included the weight of Niko’s presence beside him—real, solid, breathing.
“You okay?” Ethan asked eventually, voice rougher than he meant it to be.
Niko nodded once. “Yeah.” A beat. “I will be.”
Ethan’s hands tightened briefly on the controls.
“Thank you,” Niko added, quieter. “For coming.”
Ethan let the words land.
“Any time,” he said.
Niko’s gaze shifted to the cockpit, taking in the layout with professional interest. “This is a hell of a plane.”
Ethan exhaled slowly. “Fastest commercial aircraft in the world. Modified to suit my style and needs. It’s a private registry and hard to find. She likes to stretch her legs.”
Niko huffed a breath that might have been a laugh. “I thought so.”
Silence crept back in.
“I knew it was you,” Niko said finally.
Ethan stilled.
“When I saw that climb,” Niko continued. “No one flies like that unless they trust the air more than the rules.” He glanced sideways. “I knew it was you coming for me.”
Ethan didn’t answer.
He couldn’t trust his voice.
Because the truth was simpler and more dangerous than anything he could say out loud. He had never stopped listening for Niko in the sky. Never stopped measuring routes and weather and risk against the possibility—however remote—that one day he might need to fly like that again.
For him.
Because if he spoke, the truth would spill out in ways he didn’t trust himself to control.
They flew on.
After a moment, Niko asked, “How’s your wife?”
The question was careful. Neutral. A bridge extended without pressure.
Ethan swallowed. “She passed away. Eight months ago.”
Niko’s breath caught.
“It’s just me now,” Ethan added. “And Poppy.”
Niko turned fully toward him. “Poppy?”
“My daughter.”
The silence that followed was different.
Niko went very still.
Ethan felt it—the shift in the air, the recalibration happening behind Niko’s eyes. Shock. Calculation. Something like grief layered beneath it.
“I didn’t know,” Niko said finally.
“You weren’t meant to,” Ethan replied.
They sat with it.
Ethan let the silence stretch, knowing from long experience that it would do more work than explanation. He wondered how much Niko was mapping in his head now—how quickly he was connecting gaps, replaying old conversations, fitting new information into an old shape.
He wondered if Niko was angry yet.
Or if that would come later, once shock gave way to understanding.
Ethan wondered what Niko was thinking. About timelines. About choices. About a life Ethan had lived without him while refusing, stubbornly, to forget about him.
He wondered if Niko saw the same fault lines Ethan did—the places where one decision had fractured into a thousand consequences, each one taken alone, each one justified at the time.
Ethan had built his life small on purpose. Fewer points of leverage. Fewer people to threaten. Fewer reasons for his father to reach out and remind him who still held power.
Poppy had changed that.
And now Niko was sitting beside him, alive, furious, and asking questions Ethan wasn’t sure he deserved to answer. About timelines. About choices. About a life Ethan had lived without him while refusing, stubbornly, to forget about him.
“I think I would like to know more about this Pyre role you play,” Niko said after a while.
Ethan’s jaw tightened.
Before he could answer, a presence filled the space behind them.
Kael stopped just short of the cockpit, arms folded, expression unreadable. “So would I.”
Ethan didn’t turn. “I assumed you’d already looked into it.”
Kael huffed softly. “I’ve got Luca and Marsh pulling threads now. But I wanted to hear it from you.”
Niko snorted. “Good luck with that. He’s never been great at the whole honesty thing.”
The words landed sharper than Niko probably intended.
Ethan felt something close down inside him.
He didn’t look at either of them. “We’ll be touching down in a couple of hours,” he said evenly. “You’ll want to be ready.”
Kael studied him for a long moment, then nodded. “Understood.”
Niko said nothing.
Ethan reached forward and pushed the throttles.
The engines responded immediately, the jet surging ahead, speed climbing with smooth, relentless intent.
Acceleration pressed him back into his seat, a familiar, grounding force. Speed had always been his answer to uncertainty. If he kept moving, kept flying, he didn’t have to sit with what waited once the wheels touched down. Niko left quietly.
Behind him, voices resumed—low, careful, giving him space he hadn’t asked for but needed all the same.
Ethan stared into the dark ahead and let the weight settle where it always did, behind his ribs, tight and contained.
He had come back into a world he’d worked hard to leave.
But some truths—about Pyre, about his father, about the cost of staying invisible—were going to hurt no matter how fast he flew.
And for the first time since he’d pulled that yoke back into the climb over Jakarta, Ethan wasn’t sure there was enough sky left to outrun them.
He fixed his gaze on the dark ahead.
Some things were easier to outrun than explain. And some silences—no matter how carefully chosen—still burned.
****
The day after felt heavier than the rescue.
Not because of the slight aching pain his captivity had left behind—Niko had lived with worse—but because there was nothing left to outrun. No adrenaline. No objective. Just the quiet aftermath where memory got teeth.
Niko woke in the back of his van with the low ache of injury threaded through his side and the sharper ache of regret lodged somewhere behind his sternum. The Hawaii sun filtered in through the tinted windows, too bright, too cheerful for the way his thoughts kept circling back on themselves.
He swore under his breath and pressed a hand to the bruise beneath his shirt, grounding himself in the present. The knowledge settled oddly in his chest—comfort threaded with guilt. He was alive. He was home. Black Tide was intact.
And Ethan was gone. He remembered the moment he had walked toward the man, standing out in the open facing a group of pissed-off mercenaries, and despite the fact he had Victor and Tane at his side, Niko had been filled with fear.
He had called Ethan his, but he wasn’t. He hadn’t been his for many years.
The memory replayed whether he wanted it to or not.