Page 182 of Hard Knot

"Is flying to another country really necessary for protection?" I fan myself with the safety pamphlet, trying to create even the slightest breeze in the stifling cabin air. We're cruising at 37,000 feet, and yet I feel like I'm sitting in a sauna. Even after stripping off my sweater, leaving me in just a thin tank top, the heat is almost unbearable.

Holmes doesn't even look up from his laptop, his fingers moving steadily across the keyboard. "It's for your own good until we can determine who's behind these threats."

"This is completely unnecessary," I groan, slumping back in my first-class seat. The leather sticks uncomfortably to my skin, and I shift, trying to find a position that doesn't feel like I'm melting.

"It's pack protocol," he says simply, as if that explains everything. As if whisking me away to another continent is a perfectly reasonable response to a few threatening letters and one failed kidnapping attempt.

One failed attempt that ended with my supposedly dead best friend sniping someone in the middle of campus, but still.

"Is it also protocol to force me to sit next to you?" I ask, eyeing the empty seats around us in the half-filled first-class cabin.

The corner of his mouth quirks up slightly. "No, that's simply a preference."

A growl of annoyance escapes me. "I'd rather sit with Carter." Who's currently stuck in economy class because this last-minute flight didn't have enough first-class seats available. Holmes had wanted to use a private jet—because of course he did—but apparently Christmas air traffic made that impossible.

Two days until Christmas.

The thought should fill me with joy, but right now it just adds to my irritation. Everything's been chaos since the incident in the woods. The guys have implemented what they call "protective measures" but what I call "driving me insane with hovering." I can't go anywhere alone, can't even walk to class without an escort.

They even got my father involved, which resulted in additional security that I definitely don't need. Though watching Dad and Holmes argue about the best way to keep me safe was entertaining, if slightly terrifying.

"No more assassins," Holmes had demanded.

Dad had just shrugged. "Cannot make promises. Is tradition now."

I shift again in my seat, guilt creeping in beneath my discomfort. I know I shouldn't be this annoyed. The pack is just trying to protect me, and honestly, it doesn't bother me as much as I'm acting like it does. I'm just in a shitty mood today, everything feeling too tight, too hot, too...much.

Which is ridiculous, because this should be the happiest I've been in years.

For the first time since Harvard, I won't be spending Christmas alone. I have a pack—one that's actually been approved by my family (Marissa's opinion notwithstanding). I've gotten into my dream dance school, with the potential to return to Harvard when I'm ready to face those demons. My childhood love is part of my pack, something teenage me would never have believed possible.

And Jessie... my best friend who I thought was dead is alive. We haven't had the chance to properly reconnect yet, but I know it's coming. She promised we'd catch up after the holidays, and despite everything that's changed, I know she still keeps her promises.

I should be grateful.

Instead, I'm sitting here feeling like I'm going to crawl out of my skin, agitated and annoyed and so damn hot I can barely think straight.

"I need to use the bathroom," I announce abruptly, already unbuckling my seatbelt.

Holmes finally looks up from his laptop, his visible eye narrowing slightly as he studies me. "Are you feeling alright?"

"I'm fine," I snap, perhaps a bit too quickly. "Just need to splash some water on my face or something."

He doesn't look convinced, but he moves his legs to let me pass.

As I squeeze by him, I catch a whiff of his scent — cedar and spice, familiar now after these weeks together — and something hot coils in my stomach.

Definitely need that cold water.

The aisle feels endless as I make my way toward the bathroom, my skin prickling with awareness.

Everything feels heightened somehow—the brush of fabric against my skin, the recycled air flowing from the vents, the subtle vibrations of the plane beneath my feet.

What is wrong with me today?

The bathroom mirror reflects back a face I barely recognize—cheeks flushed, pupils dilated, hair sticking to my neck with sweat. I've splashed cold water on my face at least three times, but the heat won't subside. If anything, it seems to be getting worse.

"Get it together, Elizabeth," I mutter to my reflection, gripping the edges of the tiny sink. The metal feels cool against my palms, grounding me for a moment before the wave of dizziness hits again.

---