10. Vadim
VADIM
I know she’s pretending before she says a word.
Sloane has gone very still in my arms, and for anyone who doesn’t know what they’re looking at, that stillness might resemble composure.
Her breathing is even enough, her hands are no longer gripping my shoulders, and when I carry her through the bedroom door, she lifts her head as though she intends to assure me that she’s perfectly capable of standing on her own.
I have seen men behave exactly the same way after a bullet passes close enough to their skull to make them understand how narrowly they have avoided death.
The shaking usually comes later.
I lower her carefully onto the edge of the bed.
The private compartment occupies the rear section of the aircraft, separated from the main cabin by a short corridor and a heavy sliding door designed to keep engine noise out.
I rarely use it except on flights long enough to make sleep unavoidable, and even then, I prefer working until exhaustion takes the decision from me.
Sloane looks around because looking at anything except me is apparently preferable. I watch her take in the room.
The bed dominates most of it, wide enough for two people despite the limited space, covered in charcoal linen that has been turned down by the crew.
A narrow shelf runs along one wall beneath the windows, holding nothing except a reading lamp and the black leather case containing my watch collection.
Opposite the bed is a paneled wardrobe, a small desk secured against the wall, and another door leading to the shower room.
Everything is dark wood, gray fabric, and brushed metal because I find excessive luxury irritating when it announces itself too loudly.
Sloane’s gaze lingers on the bed. Then on me.
“I’m fine.” Her voice is steady.
Her hands are not. One is curled tightly into the fabric of her skirt, fingers clenched so hard that her knuckles have gone pale.
“You are not.”
“I’m a little shaken.”
“That is not the same thing as fine.”
“I’ll be all right.”
She says it with the same calm professionalism she used when she poured champagne on me, except there’s no spark behind it now, no stubborn challenge waiting to emerge if I press too hard.
I dislike that more than I expect.
I kneel in front of her.
Her eyes widen slightly.
I have spent most of my adult life making sure I’m never required to look up at anyone, and yet I lower myself deliberately so she doesn’t have to crane her neck to meet my eyes.
“Let me see your face.”
“I told you, it’s fine.”
“Sloane.”
Something in my voice makes her stop arguing.
I lift my hand and touch the side of her jaw as gently as I know how. The mark is already appearing. A flush of red spreads across her cheek, darker near the corner of her mouth, and there’s a tiny split inside her lower lip where her teeth must have caught the skin.
My anger returns so abruptly that my hand nearly tightens. I force it not to.
“Does your jaw hurt when you move it?”
“No.”
“Headache?”
“No.”
“Dizziness?”
“No.”
“Nausea?”
She gives me a look. “That question feels insulting considering I was almost assaulted.”
The answer surprises a laugh out of me. It’s brief, barely more than a breath, but it’s the first time she has sounded like herself since I found her.
She notices. “I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
“I don’t have a concussion.”
“I didn’t ask you to diagnose yourself.”
Her eyes narrow slightly. “I spent six years dealing with passengers who hit their heads during turbulence.” She shifts on the edge of the mattress and looks down at her hands.
For several seconds, neither of us speaks.
Then she says, quietly, “I should have screamed.”
I understand immediately.
“You could not.”
“I should have.”
“He covered your mouth.”
“I froze first.” Her voice has changed. She stares at her fingers as though she’s disappointed in them.
“I knew something was wrong when he walked toward me, and I still just sat there. Then when he grabbed me, for a second, I couldn’t do anything.
I’ve taken training courses. I know what you’re supposed to do.
I’ve handled drunk passengers before. I once helped restrain a man twice my size over the Atlantic and I didn’t freeze then, but this time I—”
“You kicked him hard enough that he could barely stand.”
She stops. “That was afterward.”
“It still happened.”
“I should have done it sooner.”
“You are criticizing yourself for not reacting perfectly while a drunk man twice your size trapped you in a seat.”
Her mouth tightens.
I sit beside her instead of remaining in front of her. The mattress dips beneath my weight.
Sloane doesn’t move away.
“When I was eight,” I say, “my father locked me in a cellar for almost two days.”
She turns her head. The surprise on her face is immediate.
I rarely speak about my childhood because there is nothing useful to be gained by discussing it, and I’m already questioning why I have begun now.
Perhaps because she looks as though she needs evidence that fear is not weakness. Perhaps because I want to give her something of myself that nobody else aboard this aircraft has.
“He was drunk,” I continue. “He had been arguing with my mother, and I decided I was old enough to interfere. I was not.”
“What did you do?”
“I hit him with a chair leg.”
Her eyebrows rise. “You were eight?”
“I was ambitious.”
That earns the faintest smile.
I continue before she can lose it. “He caught me before I managed much damage and put me in the cellar because he wanted me to understand what happened to boys who challenged men stronger than them. There was no light except what came through a small window near the ceiling, and at night rats moved through the walls.”
Sloane watches me carefully. “Did your mother get you out?”
“No. She was afraid of him.”
The smile disappears.
“My older cousin eventually realized I was missing and came looking.”
“What did you do down there?”
“For the first several hours?” I look toward the window. “I cried.”
She blinks. I can almost see her trying to reconcile the information with the man sitting beside her now.
“Then I became angry that I was crying, which made me cry harder.”
That does make her smile. Small, but real. “I’m having trouble picturing you crying.”
“I was a child, not born in a black suit.”
“I assumed you came out like this.”
“Silver hair included?”
“That probably arrived with the personality.”
I look at her. She looks almost guilty for teasing me, but the fact that she can do it at all loosens something in my chest.
“I spent years believing that the shameful part of that memory was being afraid,” I tell her. “Eventually I understood the shame belonged entirely to the man who put a child in a cellar.”
Sloane becomes quiet.
I don’t tell her what happened to my father years later.
That story would not comfort her.
Her gaze drops. “He turned the seatbelt sign on so everyone would stay away.”
“Yes.”
“I didn’t even realize.”
“You had no reason to.”
“I thought there was turbulence.”
“You trusted the captain of the aircraft to behave like a captain.”
Her mouth twists. “Apparently that was reckless.”
“No. What he did was calculated.”
I watch her absorb that. It matters, I think, that she understands this was not a failure of instinct or intelligence. Hale planned the circumstances around her. He used his position, isolated her, and counted on the authority of his uniform to make everyone else stay where they were.
“Why did you come looking for me?”
“I just wanted to check if you were okay,” I say. “I didn’t expect that bastard to have his paws on you.”
Sloane looks at me. “You’re doing it again.”
“What?”
“That thing with your face.”
“What thing?”
“The one where you look like you’re considering murder.”
“I am considering murder.”
She exhales. “Please don’t.”
“I have not agreed.”
“Vadim.”
I look at her. “Fine.”
Her brows rise.
“For now.”
“That is not reassuring.”
“It’s the best offer available.”
Another faint smile touches her mouth.
I could stay here indefinitely just to keep seeing it return.
The realization unsettles me. I don’t know this woman outside the flights we’ve taken together; she’s essentially my employee.
Yet the need to remain beside her feels physical, almost compulsive, as if leaving this room while she is still shaken would require me to tear something loose from inside myself.
That is not how I operate. I don’t become attached quickly.
I don’t become attached at all.
Attachment creates predictable weaknesses, and predictable weaknesses eventually become weapons in somebody else’s hand.
Sloane Mercer should be an amusing complication that ends when this aircraft lands. Instead, I find myself wondering when she will fly with me again.
She looks toward the door. “I should probably go back to my seat.”
“No.”
Her gaze returns to me. “No?”
“You can sleep here.”
She actually laughs once, as though I’ve said something absurd. “I’m the flight attendant.”
She says it as if that should solve the matter.
I look around the bedroom. “And?”
“And flight attendants don’t sleep in passengers’ beds.”
“You are not working for the remainder of this flight.”
“I’m absolutely working.”
“No.”
Her eyes narrow again. “There are two attendants aboard this aircraft, and one of them is me.”
“There are two attendants aboard this aircraft, and one of them was assaulted by the captain twenty minutes ago.”
“I don’t need special treatment.”
“You need rest.”
“I can rest in the crew seat.”
“You can sleep here.”
She folds her arms. It seems to require effort, because her hands are still trembling slightly. “You can’t simply decide that.”
“I own the aircraft.”
Her expression becomes incredulous. “That doesn’t mean you own everyone on it.”
“No, but it means I decide who uses this room.”
“That is an extremely convenient interpretation.”
“I’m known for those.”
She stares at me. I stare back. And after perhaps ten seconds, she realizes I have no intention of changing my mind.
“I hate how much you enjoy ordering people around.”
“I don’t enjoy ordering everyone around.”
“Just me?”
“Currently.”