EVANDER #2
I don't talk. Don't ask questions. Just drive with one hand on the wheel and the other reaching over every few seconds to make sure she's still breathing.
My brain is running calculations. Distance. Flight time. Traffic patterns. The fastest route from the airfield to whatever shithole neighborhood she grew up in.
I'm also running darker calculations. Worst-case scenarios. What happens if the kid doesn't make it. What Aurora will do. How thoroughly that will destroy her.
How thoroughly it will destroy me to watch.
Because somewhere between trapping her and marking her and kissing her against those lockers—I stopped being able to separate her pain from mine.
Which is inconvenient. Dangerous. Completely illogical.
I don't care.
Right now, all that matters is getting her to her brother before she completely falls apart.
We pull up to the airfield. The jet is already on the tarmac, stairs lowered, engines warming up.
Marcus is efficient when he needs to be.
I kill the engine and turn to Aurora. She's still crying silently, not even bothering to wipe the tears away anymore.
"The flight is one hour," I say. "I'll have a car waiting when we land."
She nods. Doesn't argue. Doesn't thank me. Just opens the door and gets out.
I follow her up the stairs into the jet.
The cabin is exactly what you'd expect from a Laurent family asset. Cream leather seats that cost more than most people's cars. Polished wood accents. A full bar stocked with liquor that would require a second mortgage to buy retail.
Aurora stops just inside the door, her eyes wide as she takes it in.
"I can't afford to pay you back for this," she whispers.
"Get on the fucking plane, Aurora." I steer her toward one of the seats. "I don't want your money."
She sits. Mechanical. Autopilot. Her hands are still shaking as she fumbles with the seatbelt.
I reach over and do it for her. Click the buckle into place, adjust the strap.
She doesn't fight me. Doesn't even seem to notice.
The pilot's voice comes through the intercom. "Mr. Laurent, we're cleared for takeoff. Flight time is approximately fifty minutes."
I lean forward and press the button. "Understood. Get us there fast."
The engines roar. The jet starts moving.
Aurora closes her eyes. Fresh tears leak from beneath her lashes.
I should say something. Offer comfort. Tell her it's going to be okay.
But I don't lie to people I care about.
And I have no fucking idea if it's going to be okay.
So I just sit there. Watch her cry. And feel something unfamiliar and uncomfortable twist in my chest.
Eleven minutes into the flight, Aurora is still rigid in her seat, staring at the window with empty eyes.
"When's the last time you slept?" I ask.
She doesn't answer. Probably didn't even hear the question.
"Aurora."
"What?" Her voice is hoarse.
"When's the last time you slept?"
She blinks slowly. "I don't know. Saturday? Maybe?"
Three days. She hasn't slept in three fucking days.
"You need to rest."
"I can't." She shakes her head. "Not until I know he's okay."
"You're not going to be any use to him if you collapse."
"I don't care."
"I do."
She finally turns to look at me. Her eyes are red, swollen, exhausted. "Why?"
Good question. One I don't have a good answer for.
"Because you're mine," I say quietly. "And I take care of what's mine."
"Even when you're the one hurting it?"
The question hits harder than it should.
"Especially then," I say.
She holds my gaze for a long moment. Then she turns back to the window.
But this time, her shoulders are shaking with silent sobs.
I can't watch this anymore.
I unbuckle my seatbelt. Move to the seat directly next to hers.
She tenses when she feels me settle beside her but doesn't pull away.
"Lean on me," I say.
"What?"
"You're exhausted. Lean on me."
"I can't—"
"Aurora." I reach over and gently pull her toward me. She resists for exactly three seconds. Then she gives up and lets her head drop to my shoulder.
The moment she does, something in me settles. Clicks into place.
This. This is what I needed. Her weight against me, her breathing syncing with mine, the floral scent of her hair filling my lungs.
She's crying harder now. Soaking my shirt. Probably getting snot on my two-thousand-dollar Armani.
I don't care. I just wrap my arm around her shoulders and hold her while she falls apart.
Somewhere over the Midwest, she falls asleep.
I feel the exact moment it happens. The way her body goes heavy, the tension draining out of her muscles, her breathing evening out into something slower and deeper.
She's completely unconscious. Exhausted enough that even her panic and fear can't keep her awake.
I should move. Should put her back in her own seat, give her proper space to sleep.
I don't.
I just sit there. Perfectly still. Barely breathing. Like any movement might wake her.
My arm is going numb where she's leaning on it. Don't care.
My neck is starting to cramp from holding this position. Don't care.
She's here. Pressed against me. Trusting me enough in her sleep to use me as a pillow.
It's the closest thing to surrender I've gotten from her.
I'll sit here until my entire body goes numb if that's what it takes to keep this moment.
The pilot's voice crackles through the intercom. "Mr. Laurent, we're beginning our descent. ETA ten minutes."
Aurora stirs against my shoulder. Makes a small sound of protest.
"We're almost there," I murmur.
Her eyes flutter open. Confused. Disoriented.
And then memory crashes back and she jerks upright, nearly headbutting me in the process.
"Liam—"
"We're landing now. Car's waiting."
She scrubs her hands over her face, wiping away the evidence of sleep and tears. "How long was I—"
"About half an hour."
"I fell asleep on you."
"Yes."
She looks at me like she's trying to figure out if she should apologize or pretend it didn't happen.
"Don't," I say before she can decide. "It's fine."
The jet touches down smoothly. Aurora is out of her seat before we've even come to a complete stop, fumbling with her seatbelt.
"Wait for the—" I start, but she's already moving toward the door.
I follow her down the stairs. The cold hits immediately—a freezing breeze that cuts through expensive fabric like it's nothing.
There's a black town car waiting on the tarmac. Marcus's work again.
I open the back door for Aurora. She slides in without argument.
I give the driver the address she texted me during the flight. Then I get in beside her and we're moving.
The neighborhood is exactly what I expected from her background and exactly what I hoped I'd never have to see.
Rundown apartment buildings with broken windows. Graffiti covering every available surface. Cars on blocks. Groups of men standing on street corners even in the freezing cold, watching our expensive town car with calculating eyes.
This is where she grew up. Where she learned to survive. Where a seven-year-old is currently fighting a fever that might kill him.
Rage floods through me. Hot and immediate and irrational.
She shouldn't be here. Shouldn't have had to grow up in this. Shouldn't have to worry about her baby brother dying because she can't afford basic fucking healthcare.
The car pulls up in front of a particularly depressing building—four stories of crumbling brick and rust-stained fire escapes.
Aurora has the door open before we've fully stopped.
I grab her hand. Hard.
She turns, startled.
"Don't let go of me here," I say.
It's not a request.
She stares at me for a second. Then she nods.
I lace our fingers together. Lock them tight.
And we step out into the freezing cold.