Page 13 of Lost Kingdom

“I’d like to stay another day.” I stumble as I attempt to turn and look over my shoulder, but he holds me up anyway. His grip is absolute and yet, painless. “Minka and Archer aren’t coming home today.”

“Cute. But I didn’t ask your opinion on the matter.” He manhandles me despite the witness I might someday call to the stand. Though I wonder, did she agree toomertàtoo?

Yeah, I can google things. I’m not useless.

“Sit your ass down.” And to make sure I do, he plops me onto a stupidly comfortable seat, the one facing toward the cockpit, and not the one facing the back. Because I get sick, and he’s irritating enough to know it. Releasing me, he takes the chair opposite, though I know he hates having his back to the door. “You used to be so sweet, you know that?”

“Hmm?” I snag my seatbelt and fix the steel buckle into place, while outside the window on my left, the engines fire to life and make the floor vibrate beneath my feet. “You don’t consider me sweet anymore?”

“You used to be soft-spoken, all rainbows and happy vibes. This cute, little, shy doctor who would sit at my bar all alone, reading her textbooks and blushing wheneveranyonecame by to sit on the stool beside yours. They tried,” he reaches up and smooths down the already smooth beard that covers his chin. “The dudes, they wanted to ask you out. But you were so focused on your studies, you saw no one. Nothing but the burger I set in front of you and the textbook you had laid in your lap.”

Observant asswipe.

“Yeah?” Despite my insecurities, then and now, I show him only attitude. “So now you claim I’m no longer sweet? Because I talk back?”

“I think you found a giant fucking pocket of sass, and you like to smash me over the head with it every chance you get. Minka Mayet came into your life, married my brother, and now you’ve stopped being the woman with a textbook at my bar, and instead, you’re the one tossing attitude my way, inviting men into your personal space purely to piss me off, and talking back when all I wanna do is protect that innocent woman I first met. Mayet gave you confidence, so now you think you can say and do whatever you want.”

“God forbid women build other women up.” I tighten my belt, squeezing my hipbones and gulping when the plane starts taxiing. Then I focus on theobnoxiously pretty Jacinta finding her seat at the front. I sure as hell ignore the hulking Timothy Malone as he leaves his seat and drops into the chair beside mine. “I still enjoy studying,” I rasp.Don’t pay attention to the plane. Don’t pay attention to the wheels. Jesus on a three wheeled scooter, don’t pay attention to the fact we’re about to defy the laws of gravity and goup. “I also enjoy telling you to mind your damn business. You’re not my man. You’re certainly not my husband. Your opinion about my life holds no weight at all. The fact youthinkyou get a say is surely throwback DNA from your forefathers.”

His eyes narrow with impatience. But the tolerance he worked all his life to control means I’m safe. Always. Forever. “I could be your husband. Doing so would ensure your safety in all things related to the very topic that gives me heartburn.”

His words, so facetiously tossed about, bring a deep ache to the very depths of my soul. Because he discusses marriage as though it’s as casual as ordering lunch.

“You’re not very funny, you know that?”

His lips twitch until my heart wants to swell and, at the same time, shrivel. His flippancy hurts.

“Have you ever known me to crack a joke?” He grabs my hand when the plane’s wheels leave the tarmac and my nails dig into the armrest between us. My knuckles glow white and my thighs tense as I push my heels against the floor. But he peels my fingers apart, prying them open and placing his between each, so we’re holding hands. So he embraces me when I’m too proud to ask for comfort. “You know my reservations over the last year or so. My family and the life we’re flying away from are the reason I worry for you. And I know you heard what I said last night about the guard at Felix’s wedding. If shit went down, they would not protect you, Aubree. But theywouldhave protected Minka and Christabelle.”

He drags our joined hands into his lap. Not to rest on his crotch or make our connection dirty. But for comfort… maybe. I think.

“If we marry, you receive protection, too. For the rest of your life. That protection is absolute, and if anyone, from any family, were to cause you harm, they risk their entire bloodline.”

“To protect me from that mafia world…” I ignore the sky rising outside the window. “You drag me in and marry me to the institution you loathe?”

“Common sense doesn’t always make sense.” He wraps our hands with his and strokes the top of my wrist. “Not everything in my world is logical.But the rules are clear. No one breaks them unless they want to die a very slow, exceptionally painful death.”

“You know what I’d consider a slow, painful death?” As the plane levels out and the tug in my stomach loosens, I slide my hand from his and gulp as this morning’s breakfast teases the base of my throat. “Marrying someone for business. Or for protection. Or misplaced loyalty. Or money. Or any kind of transaction at all. Marriage is for love. It’s for pure, unadulterated, ‘I cannot live without this other half of my heart’ devotion. It’snotbecause you’d feel bad if I died in someone else’s mafia war.”

“Aubree—”

“And it’s definitely a day to be celebrated with our families. It’s something I would invite my mom and daddy to. And my brothers. My sisters. It would mean inviting the groom’s family. And promising my heart, and being the bride who was kissed, and having a first dance, and cutting a cake. None of those things would happen to a couple who married for anything other than love. And there’s no way in hell I could invite my father to walk me down the aisle toward a man whose ‘I do’ is based around fear of the unknown, and not because he’s so helplessly, insanely, ridiculously head over heels obsessed with me.” I sniff and bring one leg up to cross over the other, now that the plane is steady and the delicious scent of coffee permeates the air. “Call me naïve. Or silly. Or high maintenance. But I won’t marry for anything less than complete obsession. Hair clips and family wars don’t count.”

Our flight lasts just over six hours, dragged out because of a snowstorm that covers all of Copeland City with white powder and ice that slicks every road. Every flat surface. Every runway from here to the next city over.

“Are you okay?” Tim rubs my back, his thumb and forefinger massaging the base of my neck as nausea wins out and the meal Jacinta served burns my esophagus on the way back up. Because snow and wind make for turbulence, and turbulence, to a small plane, is like plopping us inside a snow globe and handing the friggin’ thing to a five-year-old buzzed on sugar and big energy.

My head throbs and my stomach heaves. Sweat beads on my brow, trickling along my spine, and my feet tingle for good measure, I suppose. Or as a neurological response to my body going into panic mode.

It’s definitely the second.

“This is so gross.” Groaning, I accept the napkin Jacintaoh so helpfullyoffers, bringing it between my lips and the wine bucket Tim hurriedly grabbed to catch my barf. I wipe my mouth and burn hot with a blush, because half of my vomit contains unprocessed pasta, and the other half… yesterday’s champagne. “Leave me here to die,” I whimper, snatching my bucket back when Tim attempts to take it. Not because I need it. But because I refuse to let him deal with it. “Go,” I prod. “Live your life without me.”

Chuckling, he digs his thumb into the soft spot at the very base of my neck, sending sparks of relaxation along my spinal column and throughout my back. Then he leans closer, too close, considering the puke on my breath, and murmurs an infuriatingly gentle, “I’m not leaving. Do you need to vomit some more, or are you done?”

“I’m done.” I spit into the bucket, totally classy, and loathe the string of salvia holding on to my lip. But I use the Jacinta-napkin and clean my face before I expire from humiliation. “We’re on the ground now, so I’m okay.”

“That was a pretty rough landing.” He coaxes the bucket from my clutching fingers, then the napkin from my other hand. And tossing the second into the steel bowl, he sets the lot on the floor and makes it someone else’s problem.

---