Page 38 of Breaking Away

It started when he asked me if I was okay. I almost dropped my bag because it felt like my answer mattered to him. The downward-dog situation didn’t help either. It exacerbated things.

Regardless, I should not be feelinganything.

I’m here to escape Tyler’s ambush. Also to make a point, that I’m not as sad and option-less as everyone thinks. To do that, I need to be seen with Lokhov at his game. Not fall into pseudo-fucking poses around him.

A hand reaches across my chest right as I’m redoing my ponytail. Bad timing, as my breasts have expanded, so that arm brushes against the edge of my nipple.

Dmitri curses.

“Excuseme!” I snap. “Why is your handthere?”

“Because you can’t follow instructions.”

“I willnotbe treated like some child?—”

By my hip, I feel him palm something. A strap pulls across my waist.

“Relax, Princess,” he rasps. “I’m only buckling you up. Didn’t you hear the announcement? We don’t leave until everyone’s seatbelt is on.”

Click.

Oh.

“I could have done it,” I huff, jabbing my thumb in his direction.

“Sure.”

“Don’tsureme.”

“What else do you want me to say?”

“Nothing.”

Lokhov takes that to heart, or maybe scary silences are truly his default mode. We don’t talk as the plane readies itself for take-off or when it lifts into the sky. Unfortunately, mid-ascent, turbulence rocks us around.

I’m crossing and uncrossing my legs with every tumble. Normally I take something to settle my stomach before flights, but in the chaos of today, I’ve forgotten.

As we fall a few inches, I’m close to whimpering.

Out of nowhere, an upturned hand is held out, waiting by my knee.

He can’t be serious.

He is… ?

It’s a silent offer.

Allowing me to… hold on to him.

There’s that stupid uterus wobble again. But no. I shouldn’t risk it getting worse. I’ll just bear it?—

The plane rocks to the side. I shoot out and grip his hand, vice-like, with no mercy.

Our pilot comes on to apologize, promising everything should smooth out soon. Unfortunately, not before my arm snakes around Dmitri’s arm. It’s sturdy, warm, and smells good. Logically, I know he can’t save us when we plummet to our death, but his physical strength is some weird salve for my anxiety. Especially when his other hand finds my knee, squeezing it with what I assume is reassurance. Or a reminder that I’m acting like an idiot.

Eventually, the plane stabilizes. Fluffy clouds come out and the sky warms to a mauve-purple. We’re nice and even again.

I’m about to sag in relief, but then I see my nails have pressed indents into Dmitri’s hand. Nothing to do with the altitude, my stomach plummets. Have I hurt him? And for what? Because I’m weak. Scared.

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