10. Vadim #2
She rolls her eyes. The sight pleases me far more than it should.
“Lie down,” I tell her.
“I’m not tired.”
Her eyelids look heavy enough to contradict her before I can.
“Sloane.”
“Oh God.”
“That is not my name.”
“You’re impossible.”
“And you are lying down.”
She mutters something I don’t catch, but she moves further onto the bed.
Victory.
Small, ridiculous victory, but I feel it nonetheless.
She removes her shoes and pulls her legs onto the mattress, then pauses. “My bag.”
“What about it?”
“I need something from it.”
“I will bring it.”
“You don’t have to.”
“I know.”
She looks at me for a moment as though she wants to argue simply because she objects to how easily I keep getting my way.
Then she gives up. “It’s in the crew storage near the front.”
“I know where you left it.”
Her eyes narrow. “Very funny.”
I leave the room before she can come up with something sharper.
The main cabin becomes noticeably quieter when I appear.
Marek is seated where I left him, nursing a glass of vodka with the expression of a man who has been waiting patiently for entertainment.
Anton has Hale restrained in one of the forward seats, his wrists secured with plastic ties behind his back.
The captain looks substantially worse than he did before, although I have not touched him again.
A disappointing degree of self-control.
I retrieve Sloane’s bag from the crew compartment.
Camille watches me. “Is she all right?”
“She will be.”
“Do you need me to go to her?”
“No.”
Her eyes flick toward the bag in my hand. “All right.”
I bring it back to Sloane. She’s sitting against the headboard now, blanket pulled over her legs. When I give her the bag, she opens the front pocket and removes a small packet of tablets and a bottle of water.
“What are those?”
She looks at me. “You are remarkably nosy for someone who spent most of our flights together acting like I was beneath his notice.”
“I never acted as though you were beneath my notice.”
“You criticized my handbag within thirty seconds of meeting me.”
“It was incorrectly stored.”
She pops two tablets into her palm.
“What are they?” I ask again.
“Painkillers.”
“For your face?”
“And my head.”
“You said you didn’t have a headache.”
“I didn’t then.”
My concern must show because she immediately adds, “It’s mild. I’m fine, Vadim. Really.”
I consider calling a doctor on the ground before we land.
She reads the thought. “No.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You didn’t need to.”
“You should be examined.”
“I will be if it gets worse.” She can tell I dislike that answer. “I promise.”
That is apparently enough to make me tolerate it.
She takes the pills with water, puts everything back inside the bag, then lies down with obvious reluctance. I pull the blanket higher over her.
Her eyes follow me. “You’re not staying in here, are you?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
I don’t have an answer that sounds reasonable.
Because I want to.
Because I can’t bring myself to leave her alone.
Because the idea of her waking disoriented after what happened and finding nobody here bothers me in a way I don’t understand.
“I have work,” I say instead.
“There’s a desk outside.”
“There’s one here.”
She looks at the narrow desk on the opposite wall. “You are a terrible liar.”
“I rarely need to lie.”
“That wasn’t a denial.”
“No.”
Her mouth softens. She closes her eyes, and within minutes, her breathing changes. I sit at the small desk and pretend to read messages while watching her reflection in the darkened window.
Sleep gradually removes the tension from her face. The crease between her brows disappears first, then her hands loosen where they rest above the blanket. She looks younger asleep, though not fragile. Innocent is perhaps the wrong word.
Untouched is closer.
Not untouched physically—I have no interest in guessing about her past—but untouched by the ugliness that governs my world.
There is no calculation in her. That is a rare quality for people from my world. She spilled champagne on me because I irritated her, kissed me because she wanted to, and kicked a man hard enough to disable him because he tried to hurt her.
I understand all of those motives. They are refreshingly simple.
I stay until I’m certain she’s sleeping deeply.
Then I leave.
The moment the bedroom door closes behind me, I find all three men looking at me. Anton is trying not to. Iosef makes a respectable effort. Marek doesn’t bother.
I stop in the aisle. “Get it out.”
Marek’s eyebrows rise. “I beg your pardon?”
“You have been sitting here preparing questions since I carried her away. Ask them now so I don’t have to listen to you choke on them for the rest of the flight.”
That is apparently all the invitation he requires.
“Is she sleeping in your bed?”
“Yes.”
Marek leans forward. “Your bed?”
“There is only one.”
“Did you put her there?”
“She can walk.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
“Yes, Marek, I placed her on the bed.”
His expression becomes delighted. “You carried her into your bedroom, tucked her into your bed, and remained there with her.”
“I didn’t tuck her in.”
There’s a pause.
Iosef looks at me. “You pulled the blanket over her, didn’t you?”
I glare at him.
Even Anton laughs at that.
I sit down. “This conversation is already regrettable.”
Marek takes a drink. “You threatened to kill a pilot, carried a flight attendant to your bedroom, and disappeared for nearly an hour. What precisely did you imagine we would discuss?”
“The reason somebody has tried to kill me three times in four months would be productive.”
That sobers them.
Mostly. Marek still looks amused.
Iosef closes the tablet in front of him. “We have been discussing that.”
“Good.”