Chapter 6 Mara
MARA
The silence in the car feels louder than it should.
I don’t ask what he did. I don’t need to. The copper scent of blood clings to him, filling the space between us. Faint. Cleaned away, but not forgotten.
I didn’t see it, but I know. Because that’s how the men in our world deal with those who overstep. He didn’t say a word when he got back in. Just sat down, calm as winter, and motioned for the driver to start the car.
I wrap my arms around myself, pressing my back into the seat as we speed toward the airport. I should feel vindicated. Protected, maybe. But mostly, I feel…tight. Like something inside me has been twisted and won’t let go.
He didn’t even use my name. Just said what’s under my protection.
I don’t know what that makes me. A briefcase? A pawn?
Still, I haven’t felt this safe in weeks.
By the time we reach the private airport, the sky is stained in that deep purple-gray haze just before full dark. His car drives right up to the jet—sleek, matte black, and absolutely ridiculous in the most expensive way. The kind of thing my brothers would drool over.
Nicolo steps out first, a blur of tailored black and cold command. One of his men—tall, young, stupid—glances at me a little too long. Nicolo doesn’t miss it. He never misses anything.
“If you like your eyes in their sockets,” he growls, low and quiet, “keep them off her.”
The man immediately looks away, face pale. Nicolo doesn’t even break stride. Just climbs the steps onto the plane without a backward glance. I follow.
Inside, it’s beautiful. Quiet. Everything is leather and crystal and soft golf light. I sink into one of the armchairs in the main cabin while he disappears toward the back. A second later, he reappears.
“There’s a room in the back,” he says, voice clipped. “If you want to sleep. There’s a change of clothes.”
I blink. “Did you pick them out?”
He doesn’t answer.
I smile, but stay put, watching him slide into the seat across from me. He pulls a laptop from a slim black case, sets it on the polished table, and adjusts the cuffs of his shirt like a man preparing for war. Then…he puts on glasses.
Actual glasses.
God help me.
He catches me staring. “What?”
“Do you have a Kindle?”
He reaches into a drawer beside him, pulls it out, and hands it to me without a word.
Of course he has a Kindle. Of course it’s fully charged. I flick through the first few titles: business books, something in Italian, some dense nonfiction about political collapse.
Giving up on recommendations, I search for Maria Luis’s Sworn. A dark romance. Age gap. Toxic and taboo as hell. I try not to grin as I open it to chapter one and settle deeper into the chair.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see him typing. Methodical. Efficient. All sharp fingers and silver rings flashing against the keyboard. His glasses slide slightly down his nose, and he pushes them back up without missing a beat.
God, he’s annoyingly attractive.
The seatbelt sign goes off with a soft ding, and I unbuckle. I need to use the restroom anyway. I slip down the aisle, passing the quiet hum of the engine, and disappear into the tiny but pristine restroom at the back of the cabin. Rinse my hands. Breathe.
When I return, the plane jerks slightly. Just enough to throw me off balance. I take a step. Another. The floor shifts under me again. I trip—stumble—and fall forward.
Straight into his lap.
Shit.
My palms are pressed to his hard chest. His hands catch my waist. His laptop hits the floor with a soft thud, and suddenly all I can see is his eyes—dark green and unreadable—and the sharp line of his jaw.
His breath is warm. Slow. My legs are tangled with his. I’m such an idiot.
Neither of us moves. Too close.
His gaze drops to my mouth. Lingers.
I feel it: the gravity pulling tight between us, dragging me in like some magnetic silent scream.
I should move. But I don’t.
His voice is a whisper, low and dangerous. “Get up, nixie.”
But he doesn’t let go. His hands are still on my waist. Firm. Unmoving.
I don’t move either. I should, but there’s something about the way he’s breathing—slow, deep, as if he’s wrestling something monstrous under the surface. I tilt my head, watching him.
“Cat got your tongue?” I murmur, voice just above a whisper. “Or are you imagining what I’d taste like if you kissed me?”
His eyes flash. I can feel the heat from him radiating through his suit jacket, seeping through the thin fabric of my romper. One hand shifts slightly on my hip, fingers flexing. Not pulling me closer. Not pushing me away. Just holding. Like he can’t decide whether to throw me off or throw me down.
“I bet you think about it,” I go on, breathlessly bold now. “When I walk past you. When I talk back. When I call you out on being a grumpy old—”
“Nixie.” His voice is low. Rough. Final.
But I’m too far gone. The air between us is molten.
I shift a little in his lap—just enough. His jaw tightens. His grip hardens.
“You keep acting like a girl who doesn’t know what she’s playing with,” he says, voice like gravel. “But I think you do.”
I smile. Just a little. “Then stop playing.”
His eyes drop to my mouth. He leans in—just barely.
I don’t breathe. We’re a hair’s breadth away from burning.
Then his phone rings. Sharp. Jarring. Ice water.
He doesn’t move at first. Then—without a word—he lifts me up, strong hands on my hips, and drops me unceremoniously onto the seat across from him. I barely land before he’s already standing.
Nicolo grabs his phone, jaw locked so tight I can hear his teeth grinding. He turns his back to me and disappears toward the cockpit without sparing me a glance.
The cabin goes quiet. I stare at the empty chair where he just sat. My skin tingles where his hands touched. My heart’s somewhere in my throat.
He didn’t kiss me. But he almost did.
And the almost is worse.