~Lyra~
I swear I have never hated the sound of a private jet more in my life. Normally, it’s all sleek and luxury and oh my God, look at me, I’m in the clouds like some spoiled princess, but right now every low hum of the engine feels like a countdown to disaster. And there’s Damon, sitting across from me like he didn’t just upend my entire sense of safety by bringing her on board. Tasha. She’s curled up two rows back, wrapped in a blanket, looking all small and pitiful with that tiny scrape of dried blood still along her hairline.
And yeah, I know, the “morally correct” thing to do is feel bad for her right now, but you cannot just what tasha had done to me. You can’t wipe away the fact that she said things about me to my face just to see if I’d break.
And Damon – oh, Damon – has the audacity to sit here sipping his drink like some mafia wolf king.
His stupid perfect jawline is tight, his eyes locked on the laptop he hasn’t even touched in ten minutes, probably just pretending to work so he doesn’t have to deal with the fact that I am this close to ripping the safety card from the seat pocket and using it as a visual aid for why this is a bad idea.
“You’re glaring,” he says without even looking up, his voice low and smooth like he’s more amused than annoyed.
“No, I’m thinking,” I shoot back, crossing my arms so hard it feels like my ribs might snap. “Thinking about how you’ve basically brought a stray cat onto this plane. Except the cat is you daughter with a mouth she can’t control, and a history of trying to scratch me for sport.”
His eyes finally lift to mine, slow and steady, like he’s peeling back every layer of my annoyance to find the part where I’ll eventually give in.
“Kitten.” Just that one word, dipped in warning and affection all at once, like he knows exactly how to make my pulse betray
me.
“Don’t kitten me right now,” I say, leaning forward because whispering doesn’t work with me when I’m spiraling.
“Do you know what this is like? It’s like… it’s like you’ve put a ticking time bomb in the overhead compartment and you’re just sitting there saying ‘relax, it’s fine, the bomb won’t go off.’ I don’t care if you promise me she’s staying in another house. Another country would feel better.”
Behind us, I hear her shift in her seat and let out this little groan, like she’s waking up or dreaming or both, and I have to fight the urge to whip my head around because I know if we make eye contact I’m going to say something I can’t take back. I’m not even sure if I’m more scared of her trying to play nice or of her suddenly remembering she hates me.
Damon sets his drink down and leans back, his hand rubbing his jaw the way he does when he’s deciding how much of the truth to give me.
“She’s here because I need her close enough to keep an eye on her and far enough that she won’t touch you or the baby. That’s it. I am not doing this for her. I’m doing it because if Marcus comes looking for her again, I want him to have to come through me first.”
And damn it, there’s a part of me that melts a little because of course he would frame it like that, all protective and possessive, making it sound less like he’s defending her and more like he’s declaring war.
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