Page 58 of Mile High Ruin

“I know.”

“Then why are you carrying me?”

He doesn’t answer.

Behind him, Marek says nothing for once.

Camille appears from the rear and stops dead when she sees my face. Her eyes widen. “Oh my God.”

“I’m fine,” I tell her automatically.

Vadim keeps walking.

I’m aware of the men watching us, of Hale still slumped against the galley wall, of Camille staring after me, but everything feels strangely muffled now that the immediate danger has passed.

My body has begun to shake harder. I press my face against Vadim’s shoulder because I don’t want anyone to see.

His arms tighten around me.

“You didn’t have to beat him like that,” I whisper.

“Yes, I did.”

“You could have killed him.”

“I wanted to.”

There is no hesitation in his answer.

I lift my head and look at him. He doesn’t seem ashamed of the admission. Perhaps I should be frightened by that, but after Hale’s hands and breath and the sickening moment when I couldn’t scream, the cold certainty in Vadim’s voice makes something inside me finally begin to unclench.

He carries me toward the private room at the rear of the aircraft. When he reaches the door, he opens it without setting me down and steps inside.

Only then, safely away from the cabin and the eyes of everyone else, do I realize just how much I’m trembling.

10

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.