Page 40 of Ruthless God

Cecely is already seated in one of the leather chairs, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. She stares out the window, her expression unreadable, but I can see the tension in the way her fingers grip the armrest. She doesn’t want to be here.

I don’t blame her.

Without a word, I take a seat across the aisle from her, stretching out comfortably. This is one of my favorite jets—sleek, fast, built for both luxury and efficiency. Unlike commercial flights, where everything feels cramped and sluggish, this jet moves with purpose, just like I do.

The engines hum beneath us, steady and strong. The pilot’s voice crackles through the intercom, confirming final preparations for takeoff.

Cecely doesn’t look at me, but I can feel her awareness of me, the unspoken questions still hovering in the air between us.

She’s not ready to ask them yet.

That’s fine.

We have eight hours.

Plenty of time for the breakdown that’s sure to come.

They always break.

As the plane rushes down the runway, engines roaring beneath us, I pull out my phone and start scrolling. It’s muscle memory more than anything. Checking messages. Scanning updates. Anything to keep my mind occupied.

Across the aisle, Cecely shifts in her seat. I can feel her eyes on me before she even speaks.

“You’re not supposed to use electronics on a plane,” she mutters, her tone dry.

My lips twitch, amusement flickering in the corner of my mouth, but I don’t look up. I keep my gaze on the screen, thumbing through notifications like I didn’t hear her. Like her attempt at normal conversation doesn’t register. But it does.

And that she’s saying even something as insignificant as flight safety rules tells me more than she realizes. She’s restless. Uncomfortable. Trying to find her footing in a situation she has no control over.

I let the silence stretch, let her stew in it, before finally locking my phone and sliding it back into my pocket.

The jet lifts off, smooth and effortless, cutting through the night sky.

Still, I don’t look at her. Not yet. I make her wait, wondering what I’m going to say or do next.

Finally, I break the silence. “I can use my phone because I own the jet.”

Cecely huffs out a breath, arms still crossed. “Not sure that’s going to matter when you cause us to crash.”

I glance over. She’s staring out the window, her posture still tense, fingers gripping the armrest a little too tightly. The smooth ascent doesn’t faze me, but she’s clearly feeling every shift, every tilt of the plane as it climbs higher into the night sky.

“Let me guess.” I study her, amused. “You hate flying?”

She doesn’t look at me. “What gave it away? The green sheen to my skin?”

A smirk tugs at the corner of my mouth. “That. And the death grip you’ve got on the armrest.”

Her fingers twitch, but she doesn’t loosen her hold.

“It’s not the flying,” she mutters after a beat. “It’s the crashing part that worries me.”

I lean back in my seat, watching her for a moment longer before speaking.

“Well, in that case… try not to think about how high we are. Or how far down the ground is.”

Her glare snaps to me instantly, eyes narrowed. “You’re an asshole.”

Now I let my smirk show. “And yet, here you are. Stuck with me.”

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