Page 21 of Resurrection

Chapter Eight

Carys

There have been several times in my life when I’ve been grateful for a private jet. But flying a known fugitive from Switzerland to Russia, even on a fake set of documents, makes me appreciate the luxury more than normal.

When we got on the plane, I picked my usual seat, expecting Finn to settle into one near me, close enough to at least talk. Instead he sat as far away as possible, asked for earbuds, and has been drinking Irish car bombs and listening to something—maybe music, maybe a string of angry profanity—who knows?

Every time my focus strays to him and his relaxed pose, I want to scream. It’s irrational, but I hate him for ignoring me so completely that switching off and forgetting I exist when we’re locked on the same plane is easy. Since the moment he opened his damn door to me and Kim, my Finn obsession has been reborn.

Kim. Fucking Kim.

A few seats away, Jay catches my eye. “You all right?”

“Fine.” I draw circles on the side of my head. “Thinking, thinking, thinking.”

He chuckles. “About where we’re going?”

“Should be. But no. About where we’ve been. Never good.” I shift in my seat, straightening my spine and grab theVoguemagazine from the cushion beside me.

“Him,” he says, tipping his chin toward Finn. “Or Kim.”

A smile threatens at how well he knows my thoughts. “Both, actually.”

“Ouch.”

I flip through the articles, seeing nothing, skimming over the latest trends. I can’t focus.

“Just go tell him he’s pissing you off. He seems like the type of guy who appreciates a straightforward approach.”

I laugh. “You’re right there. Finn only likes games if he’s the person playing… and winning.” After a glance at Jay, I shuffle through a few more pages of my magazine. “I will not talk to him. What happened between us is old news. Old, dangerous, get-me-killed news.”

“Any room the two of you are in positively crackles.” Jay leans forward in his seat. “Even right now, you’re not talking. But you see the slant of his shoulders.” He uses his finger to draw an invisible line on Finn. “He’s so fucking aware of you it’s unreal.”

I shake my head. “The slant of his shoulders?” My voice drips with disbelief.

“You pay me to notice this shit.”

I close the magazine. “I do. Doesn’t mean I don’t consider it bullshit.”

“Stand up.”

“What?”

“Stand up. I bet he goes tense.”

My lips twitch. I’m amused despite myself. “Just stand,” I clarify.

“Stand up. Wiggle, like you’re pulling your shirt or readjusting your clothes. He might not look, but I guarantee he’ll notice.”

With narrowed eyes, I start to rise.

“No, no,” Jay says. “Don’t look at me. Watch him.”

“Sure. Sure. I’ll watch the slant of his shoulders.” Tossing the magazine on the seat between me and Jay, I keep my focus tuned to Finn. Sure enough, as I tug my shirt, he straightens in his chair. His head angles in my direction, not enough to see me but almost as though he’s listening or waiting for something to appear in his peripheral vision. A predator. A shiver zips through me. Why is that movement, that instinct in him, such a turn-on? God, I have issues.

After falling back into my chair, I glance over at Jay who is chuckling. He makes a shooting motion with his finger and then blows on it. Then he pretends to rotate his gun before holstering it. A laugh escapes me, louder than normal. Finn twists in his chair, and our gazes connect. My smile slips, and he turns around again.

Fuck it.

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